The Poem as Mask
by Muriel Rukeyser 

When I wrote of the women in their dance and wildness,
            it was a mask,
on their mountain, god-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone
            done with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from
            myself. 

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued
            child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes. 

No more masks! No more mythologies! 

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music

Jealousy’s Mask

by Lauren Phipps

(inspired by “The Poem as Mask” by Muriel Rukeyser)

 When I told her I was proud of things she did,
            It was a mask,
Watching her rule everything I loved,
            It was a mask; saying I was happy for her
Jealous, not true to myself, my feelings, the friendship still strong,
            but jeopardized
It was myself, split open, unable to speak of my emotions, in exile from
            myself. 

There is no more jealousy, there is no more untold feelings, there is honesty
of how I feel, myself split open,
and rescued from a failing friendship
Beside me is a person who cares,
and who has no hard feelings 

No more masks! No more jealousy! 

Now, for the first time, I feel relieved,
from the internal competition that I couldn’t win.

Untitled
by Muriel Rukeyser

The fear of poetry is the
fear: mystery and fury of a midnight street
of windows whose low voluptuous voice
issues, and after that there is not peace.

The round waiting moment in the
theater: curtain rises, dies into the ceiling
and here is played the scene with the mother
bandaging a revealed son's head. The bandage is torn off.
Curtain goes down. And here is the moment of proof.

That climax when the brain acknowledges the world,
all values extended into the blood awake.
Moment of proof. And as they say Brancusi did,
building his bird to extend through soaring air,
as Kafka planned stories that draw to eternity
through time extended. And the climax strikes.

Love touches so, that months after the look of
blue stare of love, the footbeat on the heart
is translated into the pure cry of birds
following air-cries, or poems, the new scene.
Moment of proof. That strikes long after act.

They fear it. They turn away, hand up, palm out
fending off moment of proof, the straight look, poem.

Darkness
by Lauren Phipps
(inspired by “Untitled” by Muriel Rukeyser)
 
The fear of darkness is the
fear: an unknown noise in the black night
never heard with the lights shining,
but as the lights dim, the noise grows louder.

The round waiting moment in the
room: the lights raise, permeating through the room
the dark vanishes like a magic trick
the blanket taken off the room, exposing its features.
The cover is placed on again, as the room darkens. 

That climax when the brain acknowledges the darkness,
the eyes adjust, struggling to make out the figures.
Moment of joy. As they say the candles did,
lighting up a room in desperate need for its service,
as you carefully strike the match to draw light
for its limited time. Moment of joy.

Fire touches so that hours of comfort
may come from its use, the flicker in the room
is translated into security
when another candle is lit.
Moment of joy. That strikes a newfound glory. 

They fear it. They turn away, running to find light
Trying to escape what lurks around the world
The prolonged fear after dusk arrives.
The prolonged comfort after dusk leaves.
The yellow joy after the song of the sun.