Among Women
by Marie Ponsot
What women wander?
Not many. All. A few.
Most would, now & then,
& no wonder.
Some, and I’m one,
Wander sitting still.
My small grandmother
Bought from every peddler
Less for the ribbons and lace
Than for their scent
Of sleep where you will,
Walk out when you want, choose
Your bread and your company.
She warned me, “Have nothing to lose.”
She looked fragile but had
High blood, runner’s ankles,
Could endure, endure.
She loved her rooted garden, her
Grand children, her once
Wild once young man.
Women wander
As best they can.
In the opening lines of “Among Women,” poet Marie Ponsot poses the question, What women wander? and replies by letting her thoughts wander and changing her opinion. She settles on this answer, a dry assessment of women’s lives:
Most would, now & then
& no wonder.
There’s a lot of experience behind that simple no wonder. Makes me laugh.
What is wandering anyway? Wandering is not settling in one place, not having a destination or perhaps not even a plan. Wandering is a willful disregard of boundaries. And wandering is difficult if you’re “rooted,” like the grandmother is to her garden and her family.
I’ve fallen in love with this poem. Apologies to Roberta Flack and to everyone who hates the song, but it’s killing me softly. It speaks to a neglected piece of my soul, a wild little part tucked away under layers of obligations, routines and attachments. I recognize myself, as a mother and a writer, in these lines:
Some, and I’m one,
Wander sitting still.
Devoted mothers aren’t supposed to fantasize about bolting, but how irresistible is Ponsot’s description of the gypsy life:
. . . their scent
Of sleep where you will,
Walk out when you want, choose
Your bread and your company.
The aphoristic last lines in the poem
Women wander
As best they can
pull together the experience of women across geographical lines and throughout history, from reclusive Emily Dickinson to globetrotting Gertrude Bell to Poem Elf as a young mother surrounded by piles of books and small children tugging on her sleeve asking for a snack which she promised to get as soon as she finished one more chapter.
That was long ago. But that drive is still there, even as I age and settle more and more into habit.
I get tired of evolutionary biologists and their ideas of what women want or wanted. It’s all nesting and bonding and attracting and keeping the male for the benefit of his resources and protection. Likewise, I’m depressed by the brand of feminism that insists monogamy has been forced on women by patriarchal systems and that those who prioritize traditional female values—relationships, motherhood, the domestic arts—are unwitting products of centuries of gender bias.
“Among Women” allows for both arguments. Our wild wandering spirit is as much a part of us as our bonds to those we love and care for.
The grandmother in the poem lives out the push and pull of gypsy spirit and family life. What a full portrait of her Ponsot has drawn in so few strokes. With her runner’s ankles, the grandmother is a tiny goat of a woman, someone who might dart away at any moment. She’s lived through pain and difficulty—she endures, endures, Ponsot writes. Not wanting her progeny to experience what she has, she warns her granddaughter, “Have nothing to lose.”
Spoken like an enlightened Budhhist, someone who believes that the origin of suffering is attachment. The grandmother’s warning, bleak and hard though it may be, speaks also of a soul made for adventure. The impression her warning made on the young poet is emphasized by its stark placement between the two stanzas.
I left the poem outside Trader Joe’s. Trader Joe’s is a grocery store dressed up like a trading post. There’s a world map as you walk in, and scattered through the store are hints of huts and a castaway island. It suggests travel and adventure, the adventure being the purchase of unfamiliar foods. Shopping at this modern-day peddler can be a small gesture of wandering, and for some, the most wandering they will do.
Marie Ponsot was born in Queens, New York in 1921. She graduated from a women’s college in Brooklyn and went on to earn her master’s degree in seventeenth century literature at Columbia University. After World War II she went to Paris and married the French painter Claude Ponsot. She had seven children with him, one daughter born in Paris and six sons when they moved back to the States. She divorced and worked many years as a translator of French children’s books to support her large family. In 1957 she published her first book of poetry through a connection with Beat poet and publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti. The book’s reception was overshadowed by another book published by Ferlinghetti, Allan Ginsberg’s Howl, and Ponsot seemingly disappeared from the world of poetry.
Although Ponsot would not publish for another twenty-four years, she continued to write, late at night after the children were in bed. When she was in late middle age, she published her second book and began to garner attention and awards. Unfortunately she still doesn’t seem to have the fame she deserves: her biographical entry in Poetry Foundation’s website is woefully short, a mere paragraph.
Her life story reminds me of another Catholic poet, the marvelous Anne Porter. Porter was also married to a painter, raised a large family and found recognition late in life.
As much attachment as I have to “Among Women,” I’ve discovered that Ponsot has been a part of my life even before I even read the poem. I was delighted to read that she translated the Golden Book of Fairy Tales. It’s an indelible part of my childhood. Many a night I spent with that book, reading in the bathroom because lights were supposed to be out. Children, too, wander as best they can.
The book is still in print. My children loved it. Once in a while I’ll pull it out and wonder over the beautiful illustrations and strange stories.
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