Liberian Literary Magazine Phenomenal Woman
Maya Angelo
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I ' m not cute or built to suit a fashion model ' s size But when I start to tell them, They think I ' m telling lies. I say, It ' s in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I ' m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That ' s me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It ' s the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I ' m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That ' s me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can ' t touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can ' t see. I say, It ' s in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I ' m a woman
Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That ' s me.
Promoting Liberian literature, Arts and Culture
Now you understand Just why my head ' s not bowed. I don ' t shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It ' s in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, ' Cause I ' m a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That ' s me.
Sara Teasdale
To An Aeolian Harp –
The winds have grown articulate in thee, And voiced again the wail of ancient woe That smote upon the winds of long ago: The cries of Trojan women as they flee, The quivering moan of pale Andromache, Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low.
It is the soul of sorrow that we know, As in a shell the soul of all the sea. So sometimes in the compass of a song, Unknown to him who sings, thro ' lips that live, The voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong In sweeping sadness of the winds that give Thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands.
The Temple Of Fragrance
Who could have fashioned this marvel? The mountain cracks into a wide, hollow cave. Pious Buddhists struggle to set foot inside, others gaze at it tirelessly. Drippings form a sweet streamlet, as sailors on incoming junks bend their heads. City folk also flock to these springs and woods. Clever, indeed, the Old Man in Heaven!
Ho Xuan Huong
62