Angela Bocage

Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the poetry category.

A beautiful blog to which I subscribe

I miss Mary Daly sometimes, but I know she’s always with me. I love to read her books aloud. I will be more accurate, more truthful, more observant, more aware, for the rest of my life because of her. Today I saw a blog by a woman of far greater expressive and analytical powers than i possess, and am subscribing to it. She writes so brilliantly on how the world has changed. I sometimes talk with a friend in Boston about this, about how the world has changed, but the author of Radical Feminism in Otherland fleshes out and fully paints that vision I grope to even put into the simplest words. Here is an example of her good sense and the beauty of her writing:
“Ideals of self-empowerment mystify the reality that patriarchy and capitalism in their neo-liberal formations remain structural and systemic, despite appearances (spectacles) everywhere of gender-neutrality and the neutrality of the ever ‘free’ market.”
My Boston friend and i are imagining theater about what this blogger calls the “One-Dimensional Feminism” of these Orwellian days. May Radical Feminism in Otherland inspire us and help us to be as honest and measured and aware and passionate as we can be!


We are sick but the world is still beautiful

My partner’s sinuses flare up and cause us to get dizzy and yucky and migrainey and can’t-breathe-ish. I’m drinking green tea and we’re taking various medicine but still floaty feverish hurting. Yesterday evening I was coiled in pain in fetal position and felt like I was about to die, or as my beloved has described hangovers, “afraid I would live.” But much beautiful is happening: my son the poet got a standing ovation at San Francisco’s MLK day ceremony (check it out at,  my partner still loves me, people all over the country are so happy about the history President Obama has made, and I’ve seen four new kinds of snow in the past week—the big feathery flakes one hears about,  the huge clusters of smaller flakes, invisible snow (but one can hear it hitting one’s down coat), and snow that comes down so slowly each little unit of it seems to float. This is my eighth day of eating/drinking only vegan which I am extremely happy about–and I haven’t smoked in over 24 hours, because I had relapsed on smoking previously…so I hope to go to sleep soon and come back to life at least somewhat better suited for it.

The rain on a late summer Sunday

In all the greenness, the rain softened both greens and blues with silvery grey. The silvery grey sound was the best part, and the sleeping in the afternoon, windows open, seeing and hearing and smelling the freshness and beauty. Another best part was that a cat was sleeping on me, a dog in front of me, my beloved behind me, and any one of us would occasionally sigh, or touch another one reassuringly and lovingly. When pup goes outside in the rain, everytime he comes in Jezebel the white/calico  junior female cat kisses him, rubs her head on him, and sometimes cleans his nose or an ear; so I meant the critters too.

I was supposed to do so many things I didn’t do. Part of the day, though, it was because our network was down. Strangely happy in the rain–strangely happy in general. Love the creatures, and the girl, with whom I live, the plants and trees among which our li’l house sits, the smells of the garden, putting fresh garden grown foods into the dinners I make.  That reminds me, I have to dump a bunch of things into the compost directly, cause the kitchen bucket’s full…and of course, dump out the kitchen bucket. Berekiah the pup will no doubt go with me to guard me from spiders.

My brilliant daughter, I love her so much, has arranged to go to a school that will not force mindless prompt daily attendance at a prison block: City As School. Well, she already reads and writes much better than most attorneys. And has grown and changed over her weeks in San Francisco studying b/w photography and experimental film. Can’t wait to hear more about her directions and ideas.

My splendid cousin Jennifer was kind enough to send me a poem about tomatoes, which echoes my mother’s sentiments about their goodness! I will post it later. She studied Yeats this summer in Ireland. She reports that Ireland was chilly, so perhaps in summer the Irish snicker at their tourists like we used to do in San Francisco…Trina Robbins and I used to fuss and fuss about not being able to wear skimpy sundresses in SF. But Trina loves Ireland, goes whenever she can. Weather is relative…

Does anyone know if Yeats had anything– relationship, influence, feud, whatevs–with the poet I was supposed to do my religion thesis on, Charles Williams of the Oxford Inklings group? An amazing paralysis/anxiety took hold of me everytime I even thought about that thesis, even though I was fascinated with religious studies (still am!). This eventually led to my changing my major to art. Rather pleased I did. But wish wish wish I could draw and paint more now; learning canine anatomy and kinesiology and drawing canine skeletons and skulls and musculature and zygomatic arches and canarsials.

Their toes-bones are pretty fascinating too. Their ears. As I wrote in one of my favorite comics I ever did, the one about artificiality and armor, I was always taught by my mom to wash my ears because it would teach me how to draw ears. Berry’s I can just look at, but I think some of the worst things about the way I draw canids at present is failure to correctly place eyes and ears on the skull.  I’m getting a couple relatively cheap books about this, because the vet textbooks are way expensive. And shall let you know if they are useful.

Robbin’ Robin….

March 17th, at the San Francisco finals of the National Teen Poetry Slam presented by Youthspeaks, a poet did something unprecedented and crazy: after getting scores like 9.2 and 9.4 in the first round for his slash-and-burn Popolitical, and hearing the fierce round of boos from the packed audience in the Masonic Auditorium for the paltry scores, Robin Black spoke directly and defiantly to the panel of judges before his second round offering: “Man, I’m not here for y’all!”

Only then did he throw down The Revelation or the Bullet, a challenge to every human being living in these times. Again the same comparatively low scores, and again the poetry-loving house responded to those scores with outraged screams and boos. And while Robin was thus not one of the five SF poets going on to the next round of the National Slam, he was very, very clear about the message he was there for.

Afterwards, greeted with much more love by members of the audience than he had been by the judges, invited to participate in events, invited to hang out with new poets and poets he’d already heard and respected, and getting his hand grabbed by an elderly lady who told him “those motherfuckers motherfuckin’ robbed you!” Robin isn’t wasting time being mad because he brought the finest rocky road and the judges wanted to taste butter pecan, he’s already going back to the hard work that brought him this far: the high-risk kid with a record, the high-school dropout who chose to teach himself, is taking those next steps he can’t not take, because that’s who he is…not there for the judges, but there for the message, there for the people.

Check out his work at the link on the right, especially Revelation and Popolitical. I looked into this child’s eyes the day he was born and knew he had some kind of amazing gift to give the world, some kind of starry core of fierce compassion and clear vision, and I am proud beyond words that he’s my son.

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