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
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