| Title | : | Loose Woman |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0679755276 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780679755272 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 115 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1994 |
“Not only a gifted writer, but an absolutely essential one.” — The New York Times Book Review
“All poets would do well to follow the example of Sandra Cisneros, who takes no prisoners and has not made a single compromise in her language.” — Barbara Kingsolver, Los Angeles Times
Loose Woman Reviews
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Fuck yeah...makes me wish I spoke fluent Spanish. Cisneros alternates between English and Spanish in her poems. She writes from the ovaries. If I ever meet Sandra I will buy her a beer and light her cigar.
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Of the poems in this collection, the ones I like the most come from the central section entitled "The Heart Rounds up the Usual Suspects": here is the poem of the same title:
I sleep with the cat
when no one will have me.
When I can't give it away
for love or money-
I telephone the ones
who used to love me.
Or try to lure the leery
into my pretty web.
I'm looney as a June bride.
Cold as a bruja's tit.
A pathetic bitch.
In short an ordinary woman
Grateful to excessiveness.
At the slightest tug of generousness,
I stick to the cyclops who takes me,
lets me pee on the carpet
and keeps me fed.
Have you seen this woman?
I am considered harmless.
Armed and dangerous.
But only to me.
Most in this section are in a similar vein, or mood, with a certain dry humour aimed at herself, which I think is what I like. Phones feature quite a lot in her poems and you certainly arrive at the sense that she is a woman, often waiting for her lover:
I Don't Like Being in Love
Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you're 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don't know where.
And worse-with whom?
I don't care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.
Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon
scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.
Brain a whorl of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.
This poem more or less reveals the age of the writer, who was born in 1954 and this collection - Loose Woman, was first published in 1994, so most of the poems are about a woman in her late 30s. Sometimes I felt I was a little too old to appreciate her love fantasies, or even her dependence on love and that elusive, perfect male; but then I also felt jealous, perhaps re-inspired. No one is too old for love, for the pain, and its massively egocentric whims?
Most of Cisneros' poems are about love - it's strange because I have just left a woman from the late 12th century whose every poem was also about the vagaries and traumas of Love - Marie de France. Perhaps I am a little obssessed.
In the third part of her book - "Heart, My Lovely Hobo", the poems are longer and thus a little more complex and also quite descriptive, for example there is one entitled "Los Desnudos: A Triptych", which is about 3 Spanish or Mexican painters and particular works by each of them; Goya, Diego Rivera and of course Frida Kahlo, - Cisneros pays homage to her fellow artists - but the poem is still about love, or rather the dangerous aspects of love.
I will take just a couple of verses because it's a long poem:
I
In this portrait of The Naked Maja by Goya
I'll replace that naughty duquesa
with a you. And you
will do nicely too, my maharaja.
The gitano curls and the skin a tone
darker than usual because
you've just returned from Campeche.
All the same, it's you raised
with your arms behind your head
staringly coyly at me from the motel pillows.
Instead of the erotic breast,
we'll have the male eggs to look at
and the pretty sex.
In detail will I labor the down
from belly to the fury of
pubis dark and sweet,
luxury of man-thigh
and coyness of my maja's eyes.
The poem continues with another 11/12 verses, but what I like, is that she makes no bones about the fact of her multiple lovers and secondly this poem is clever; she does what all good academic feminists are doing now, which is to reverse the traditional roles of viewer and viewed. And, she suggests the erotic move down her lover's body with - "will I labor," - but means explicitly as an artist, rather than lover - with her words. She, therefore, positions herself powerfully as viewer and artist - which I like.
Also from this third section - a poem which designates a balance between love and work, an important one, because I think it helps us to perceive the intense but essentially lighthearted nature of her poems about love-relationships. When you read the whole book you begin to understand the finely tuned balance she has achieved between the highs and lows of love.
A Man in My Bed Like Cracker Crumbs
I've stripped the bed.
Shaken the sheets and slumped
those fat pillows like tired tongues
out the window for air and sun
to get to. I've let
the mattress lounge in
its blue-striped dressing gown.
I've punched and fluffed.
All morning. I've billowed and snapped.
Said my prayers to la Virgen de la Soledad
and now I can sit down
to my typewriter and cup
because she's answered me.
Coffee's good.
Dust motes somersault and spin.
House clean.
I'm alone again.
Amen.
Very nice - do not let the simplicity of her lines woo you into thinking this is a simple poem or poet. Her muse is the Virgin, she gives her power, and when the lovers leave; it is with a sense of relief that she can return to her work, her writing.
And finally my last choice because otherwise I will be in trouble with the copyright laws - this one like so many of them hums with the sense of desire and sexual energy - but like a true artist she feeds that energy into her work:
Vino Tinto
Dark wine reminds me of you.
The burgundies and cabernets.
The tang and thrum and hiss
that spiral like Egyptian silk,
blood bit from a lip, black
smoke from a cigarette.
Nights that swell like cork.
This night. A thousand.
Under a single lamplight.
In public or alone.
Very late or very early
When I write my poems.
Something of you still taut
still tugs still pulls,
a rope that trembled
hummed between us.
Hummed, love, didn't it.
Love, how it hummed.
Last note: there is of course her famous, or infamous poem in this book - "Down There", which I believe she wrote, partly in defiance of John Fowles's "Confront the cunt" - and I like it too. I think it's good to remind men from where they come. (See page 82 - my edition - Julie!) -
I will keep this short because I don’t read poetry all that often… I don’t feel particularly as qualified to go in depth but-
Someone said that Sandra Cisneros writes with her ovaries and there is truly no better description of this collection of poems than that. I’ve never read anyone with such a sensual and similar outlook on love, sex, and culture the way she writes. It’s awakening in a way. And I simply think if you’re a woman of color this will speak to you 😇 -
You Bring Out The Mexican In Me
by Sandra Cisneros
You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I'd let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.
For you.
You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora's curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.
You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City '85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtacchiuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.
Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.
You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch-in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in you light. Oh,
I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.
Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.
Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Aarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how. -
""You're in love with my mind/But sometimes, sweetheart, a woman needs a man who loves her ass." :]
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Strong, sensual, erotic, funny, poignant, beautiful.
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Hey man idk poems really but Sandra came up w some Sick pet names that u can call your lover or best friend:
Paper parasol of pleasures
Fleshy undertongue of sorrows
Sweet potato plant of my addictions
I'll answer to "sweet potato plant" or "undertongue" for short though ty for asking -
This poetry collection is incredible. Sandra Cisneros is a phenomenal writer and plays with language here in really interesting ways. I will be returning to this book again and again.
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I'm sure these poems felt bold and revelatory when this book came out in 1994, but now they just seem like rejected Lilith Fair songs.
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Like a tango, salsa, musky summer night, Mexican food, women with dark shiny hair, and men with dark eyes. This poetry has it's own scent and taste. When everything you've been reading seems bland, this revives the senses.
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As much as I would like to give an enthusiastic review, I cannot. It is very much a fledgling attempt, linguistically, stylistically, & subject matter-wise. Growing up in San Antonio from the age of three, I thoroughly appreciate the references & depictions of a place I am beyond fond of. Perhaps I am a victim of time. Perhaps she is. Perhaps at the point of publication, this style was a very unique in its presentation. Perhaps it was not cliché. Perhaps it did not seem as a caricature of the Hispanic experience. At this moment in time, it does. It may sound counterproductive to rail on a fellow Hispanic writer who is actually quite established, but I cannot turn my eye & mind away from my perception of flaws. As poetry goes, I cannot discredit the depth from which emotions such as these are drawn. Poetry is a very intimate exercise & declaration. I can however comment on the method. I can comment as an “insider” into the Hispanic & this very city experience. I can provide commentary on the popular & artistic depictions which are strewn into the mainstream by artists which are supposed to manifest my particular cultural experience. No culture is a monolith yet there exists intimacies which register deeply within our ethnic groups. We can identify when they are drawn upon. We can identify when stereotypes are actuated, fulfilled, exploited, we can also tell the sincerity of such proclamations. Perhaps this occurred at a point in time when overcompensation existed. So to thrust these over animated stick figures, of what being Mexican is, was what was needed. I do not feel the need to promote or be boisterous about my heritage. The art which spumes forth, in itself, is a proclamation of the heritage. My very essence defines & redefines what it means to be a Hispanic American. Indeed it is a search. A journey to be able to identify, to illustrate, to evoke, to exemplify what it means to be Hispanic, but at the expense of sounding cliché, that does not resonate well with me personally. A conflict exists, the persistent tug of assimilation into American culture, the lure of what it means to be American flies in the face of what it means to preserve the rich & romantic root of what it means to be Hispanic. The confluence of becoming, the dichotomy of remaining & the paradox of combatting who we are. It is the transformation all cultures face when ameliorating into this “melting pot”. I did appreciate her sensuality, her feminist treatises, her playful spirit, her unapologetic raucous foolery. Those seemed genuine. The Hispanic depictions did as well. There is just something that irks me about fulfilling clichés. Must I carry a sign around with me saying I live, eat, die, shit, breathe being Hispanic. I do not think so. But in action, these things happen without my control & yet I do not feel the need to peacock these attributes. I will always love & promote la raza but I feel as a writer my duty is to humanity, to myself, to the craft, & yes, to the identity to which I owe much of who I am, my “razaness”. As this is a very early work, I hope to read more with the intent to find a fully-developed & mature writer.
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There are hearts in my eyes right now. I love how casually self-deprecating Sandra Cisneros is.
"A Few Items To Consider"
There is much to learn.
Grace of the neck to memorize.
Heliotrope of sleep.
Hieroglyph of bones to decipher
Love, if at all, comes later.
For now, the hands take to their dialogue.
Gullible as foreigners.
A greedy chattering, endlessly on nothing
Nothing at all.
"You Like to Give and Watch Me My Pleasure"
You could descend like rain
destroy like fire
if you chose to.
If you chose to.
I could rise like huracán.
I could erupt as sudden as
a coup d’état of trumpets
the sleepless eye of ocean,
a sky of black urracas.
If I chose to.
I don't choose to.
I let myself be taken.
This power is my gift to you.
"Dulzura"
I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.
Say my name. Say it.
The way it's supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.
"I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won't Because I'm Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen"
"Bay Poem from Berkeley"
This weight
on the other side of the bed
is only books, not you. What
I said I loved more than you.
True.
Though these mornings
I wish books loved back.
"Mexicans in France"
I laugh.
--Lucky for you
I am not carrying my knife
today.
He laughs too.
--I think
the knife you carry
is
abstract. -
Short stories. The novel. And now, poetry. Is there anything Sandra Cisneros doesn't write, and write well?
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This was simply magical.
I'm loving the Chicana poetry
I want and need more -
every time i read something by sandra cisneros i just get so!! blown!! away!! with how amazing her writing is. i literally can never get enough of how she’s able to remind me that being a woman (specifically a mexican american woman) is unmatched. i don’t see her books talked about enough and i hate that because sandra cisneros is by far one of the best authors i’ve read especially as a mexican american her writing is even more important to me
some of my favorites were: ‘you bring out the mexican in me’ ‘waiting for a lover’ ‘perras’ ‘down there’ and ‘mexicans in france’ -
mysterious, conflicted, honest and vulnerable.
I love 90s feminist poetry, its somethin else -
im not a poetry girlie but i think i liked this but i’m also dense so like i think i need to reread to actually understand
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This collection of poetry by Sandra Cisneros is unabashed, unafraid, modern, feminist and at times immodest free verse, which is as precise as it is indolent. At times, it makes you think that it was written spontaneously and other times, it seems to have been written with painstaking exertion.
This reminds me of a line from Hamlet, "Brevity is the soul of wit."
I leave you with my favourite words of this book from a poem named "Down There".
(Playboy poem mentioned below is John Updike's "Cunts" in Playboy (January 1984), 163)
Baby, I'd like to mention
the Tampax you pulled with your teeth
once in a Playboy poem*
and found it, darling, not so bloody.
Not so bloody at all, in fact.
Hardly blood cousin
except for a unfortunate
association of color
that makes you want to swoon.
Yes,
I want to talk at length about Men-
struation. Or my period.
Or the rag as you so lovingly put it.
All right then.
I'd like to mention my rag time.
Gelatinous. Steamy
and lovely to the light to look at
like a good glass of burgundy. Suddenly
I'm an artist each month.
The star inside this like a rub.
Fascinating bots of sticky
I-don't-know-what-stuff.
The afterbirth without the birth.
The gobs of a strawberry jam.
Membrane stretchy like
saliva in your hand.
It's important you feel its slickness,
understand the texture isn't bloody at all.
That you don't gush
between the legs. Rather,
it unravels itself like string
from some deep deep center-
like a Russian subatomic submarine,
or better, like a mad Karlov cackling
behind beakers and blooping spirals.
Still with me?
Oh I know, darling,
I'm indulging, but indulge
me if you please.
I find the subject charming.
In fact,
I'd like to dab my fingers
in my inkwell
and write a poem across the wall.
"A Poem of Womanhood"
Now wouldn't that be something?
Words writ in blood. But no,
not blood at all, I told you.
If blood is thicker than water, then
menstruation is thicker than brother-
hood. And the way
it metamorphosizes! Dazzles.
Changing daily
like starlight.
From the first
transparent drop of light
to the fifth day chocolate paste.
I haven't mentioned smell. Think
Persian rug.
But thicker. Think
cello.
But richer.
A sweet exotic snuff
from an ancient prehistoric center.
Dark, distinct, and excellently
female. -
Finding this book was a unique, memorable experience to say the least. When a woman you respect and admire reads a poem aloud as evocative and feminine as "Down There" and you can feel the kinship it is to be among the race of women, you have to buy the book from whence the poem came. Such began my experience with Sandra Cisneros. Having missed the traditional "House on Mango Street" assignment, this dark, erotic, distinctly female collection of poems was my introduction to this author. Thus far, her work is made to impress.
Cisneros whispers the secrets of a woman with a clarity and honesty that shocked me. From "Waiting for a Lover," where she captures the concurrent fear and joy it is to fall in love, to "Love Poem for a Non-Believer" which calls us back to the bedroom, to the power and the lust, when devotion and sex mingle in the night air; Her artistry of words is enchanting. Here she has spiked the punch: made the ordinary thoughts of women into vines twisting around the heart. She both grips and releases; reminds and urges us to forget. Bold, yes, but not for the sake of effect. Cisneros is not writing only for the sake of reaction: she spells truth in her stanzas.
My only complaint is the singular focus on sex and love. Small glimpses of other topics are seen in poems such as "Arturito" and "Las Girlfriends," both of which are charming, but the collection itself reeks of sexuality. While this is a topic that deserves open communication, especially in order to understand women of all cultures, I was also looking to explore Cisneros' soul. I wanted more poems: those about grief, about depression, about joy that has nothing to do with conquest. Show me the side of the woman when men are far from her mind. Let me see her without a shadow of maleness cast over her shoulder. -
I flew through this so I’m sure I did not give full attention. Still, I think can give a proper respect :)
My favorite poem was “You Bring Out the Mexican in Me” because of the anaphora and rhythm. The repetition was a good, strong way to catch my attention.
Cisneros mostly writes about love and loss in this collection. You can tell she’s pissed and processing but feels she’s too old for these kind of “teenage” emotions as she references it a few times. You can’t help but love a poem with a title like “I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won’t Because I’m Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen”.
I also liked the poem “I Don’t Like Being in Love” with it’s birth imagery. Similarly with “Down There” when Cisneros gave a vivid experience to menstruation after a gross wading through of other bodily fluids. I’m so glad Cisneros wrote about menstruation - I wanted to write such a poem in my poetry class but didn’t have the nerve. Obviously Cisneros did a much better job!
Cisneros ends with “Loose Woman”, my favorite in her last section. She pulls no punches in claiming her female identity as a woman pushing all the boundaries. Makes me want to read everything she’s written. -
The poems in Loose Woman are bawdy, audacious, and graphic. After a while, there's a sameness to them--as one lost weekend, one hangover, one angry phone call in the middle of the night must be very like another. Cisneros is a skillful poet and a courageous writer. Poetry, however, is an art, and so much of art depends on the beholder.
While the themes of these poems seem to me to be obsessively focused on self, the word choice is often terrific, as in this stanza from "Night Madness Poem":
In dreams the origami of the brain
opens like a fist, a pomegranate,
an expensive geometry. -
I love Cisneros' short stores and I immensely enjoyed The House on Mango Street but her poetry did not grab me. The same rawness and honesty of womanhood that I loved in the above mentioned, I disliked in her poetry.
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I was an instant fan of Sandra Cisneros after reading The House on Mango Street and recently I’ve been exploring more of her work. I finished her short story collection Woman Hollering Creek and decided to venture into her poetry.
I was enchanted by the poetry collection with a provocative title fitting of la mujer fuerte Sandra, Loose Woman. This collection is charged with a seduction, a sensuality, that I found beguiling. Often women are quieted when the issue of sexuality arises. These poems are unapologetic, yet vulnerable, romantic but also menacing.
Quite honestly, the more I read by Sandra Cisneros, the more I adore her. Her voice is so authentic and relatable. Me parece una amiga, una comadre, una bruja. These poems display the magic she possesses.
My favorites include: You Bring Out the Mexican in Me, I Let Him Take Me, Dulzura, You Called Me Corazón, Night Madness Poem, Full Moon and You’re Not Here, With Lorenzo at the Center of the Universe, el Zócalo, Mexico City, Black Lace Bra Kind of Woman, Las Girlfriends.
(I guess I could have just said they’re all my favorites, given the length of the above list) -
LOOSE WOMAN
Wow. I want to scream YASSSS, GIRL!! Can I?! Because YASSSS!! Cisneros is a whiskey kind of woman. Strong and smooth with some heat. I appreciate how she dusted Spanish throughout and stayed true to her roots. She certainly has a hell of a way with words— foul mouthed and fresh. I can see this collection as controversial as she is completely forthright (which I find refreshing) while some folks may be more conservative (this may not be for those types). I thoroughly enjoyed it and recommend to anyone looking for a healthy dose of stout feminism. -
Refreshingly original, very provocative to the mind, heart, and sexual as well. Absolutely loved the seamlessly mixed in Spanish- it felt so natural (I hardly noticed when she switched back and forth)! The poems are stunning and sometimes shocking in how open they are. The diction is brilliant and I was really into the sonics and how some words sound so well together and how the poems carry themselves through sound at time, through imagery other times, or emotions. Just love it.
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Really interesting poems. I loved how specific Cisneros was with the images she included. There were like six poems that I liked the most. Not a new favorite poetry collection, but I would suggest looking up her poetry especially if you have read her short stories or novels. Glad to have read this one and it truly was beautiful at times. It also discusses a lot of feminist issues, which is always intriguing to see in poetry
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I have to say I had higher expectations? Someone said this book was like “if Rupi Kaur knew how to write”. I would have to say that this book is like if Rupi Kaur knew how to write with subtlety but also if she was more horny. I can see why people would love this collection and I liked some of the poems but the one abt skydiving ….. All I will say is Laugh out loud. I could reconsider though bc maybe I’m not smart enough to understand the poems.
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Sandra Cisneros is raw, honest, hot, sexy, and cool. This collection of poetry was an astonishing work of what it feels like being a woman in love, lust, and women who live our lives as best as can. It's not soft, she's unapologetic with who she is as person. Her words cut but there is a piece of magic in every line.
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4.5
good stuff!!! i looooove cisneros's poetry omg, i've been trying to find a copy of her woman hollering creek short story collection but it eludes me, sadly
she's so good with words and so frank and honest. respect -
Scandalous and feisty, as intended! Fun mix of English and Spanish; worth looking up the words you're not sure on, though keep in mind dual (triple, quadruple) meanings. Also, felt like I was back in San Antonio when reading this!
