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I dunno, they came out of nowhere, one on each leg of the plane trip. I guess, the first one, I was sitting next to a girl who looked like a supermodel. The second one's not nearly as good, wasn't as spontaneous, works a bit too hard and doesn't quite make itself clear. But there it is.
1
My lashes are of less than average length
My skin is only moderately fair
My voice, it's true, may issue with some strength
Consistency applies not to my hair
My movements may be lacking in some grace
My hands are neither dainty nor petite
Marks of opinions lie upon my face
And unshod calluses beneath my feet.
My eyes are more incisive than serene
My lips do not invite, instead declaim
My waist is not the lithest ever seen
My hips and knees are thick and quick to lame.
My chin does not come coyly to a point
My teeth are even, but not blinding white
My wrist is not a thin, delicate joint
My fingers thick, to work and play and write.
I care not whether clothes are of the mode
I dress to please myself, and not for you
My figure will inspire no psalm or ode
But I can write, myself, and so I do.
I may not fit the feminine ideal,
But I would rather make and think and feel.
2
My mind, by definition, is my own
The things I love, I love exceeding well
My deep regard may not be overthrown
By any small offense you care to tell.
The fickleness of women rises high
Of history's most overwrought clichés--
Our falseness and capricious whims stand by
As later entrants to these heartless plays.
No doubt he thinks this missive is for him,
Who finds in it a plea to "look at me?"
For nothing overrides the mewling quim
Whose prejudice includes misogyny.
These things of which I speak, things I adore,
May well be in his purview, thoughtless man,
But I suspect that I may love them more
Than any shut-mind quibbler ever can.
Indeed, I do not claim love to impress--
My loves are for my own sake, I confess.
1
My lashes are of less than average length
My skin is only moderately fair
My voice, it's true, may issue with some strength
Consistency applies not to my hair
My movements may be lacking in some grace
My hands are neither dainty nor petite
Marks of opinions lie upon my face
And unshod calluses beneath my feet.
My eyes are more incisive than serene
My lips do not invite, instead declaim
My waist is not the lithest ever seen
My hips and knees are thick and quick to lame.
My chin does not come coyly to a point
My teeth are even, but not blinding white
My wrist is not a thin, delicate joint
My fingers thick, to work and play and write.
I care not whether clothes are of the mode
I dress to please myself, and not for you
My figure will inspire no psalm or ode
But I can write, myself, and so I do.
I may not fit the feminine ideal,
But I would rather make and think and feel.
2
My mind, by definition, is my own
The things I love, I love exceeding well
My deep regard may not be overthrown
By any small offense you care to tell.
The fickleness of women rises high
Of history's most overwrought clichés--
Our falseness and capricious whims stand by
As later entrants to these heartless plays.
No doubt he thinks this missive is for him,
Who finds in it a plea to "look at me?"
For nothing overrides the mewling quim
Whose prejudice includes misogyny.
These things of which I speak, things I adore,
May well be in his purview, thoughtless man,
But I suspect that I may love them more
Than any shut-mind quibbler ever can.
Indeed, I do not claim love to impress--
My loves are for my own sake, I confess.