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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave The I you know isn’t me, you said, truthtelling liarMy roots are not my chainsAnd I to you:   Whose hands have grownthrough mine?   Owl-voiced I cried then:   Who?But yours was the one, the only eye assumedDid we turn each other into liars?holding hands with each others’ chains? - Quote by Adrienne Rich

The I you know isn’t me, you said, truthtelling liarMy roots are not my chainsAnd I to you:   Whose hands have grownthrough mine?   Owl-voiced I cried then:   Who?But yours was the one, the only eye assumedDid we turn each other into liars?holding hands with each others’ chains?

Adrienne Rich
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Women's art though created in solitude wells up out of community. There is clearly both enormous hunger for the work thus being diffused and an explosion of creative energy bursting through the coercive choicelessness of the system on whose boundaries we are working.
Adrienne Rich
The moment of change is the only poem.
Adrienne Rich
We must use what we have to invent what we desire.
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Until we can understand the assumptions in which we are drenched we cannot know ourselves.
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The most notable fact that culture imprints on women is the sense of our limits. The most important thing one woman can do for another is to illuminate and expand her sense of actual possibilities.
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The moment of change is the only poem.
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Theory -the seeing of patterns, showing the forest as well as the trees- theory can be a dew that rises from earth and collects in the rain cloud and returns to earth over and over. But if it doesn't smell of the earth, it isn't good for earth. -Notes Toward a Politics of Location
Adrienne Rich
There is a cop who is both prowler and father:he comes from your block, grew up with your brothers,had certain ideals.You hardly know him in his boots and silver badge,on horseback, one hand touching his gun.You hardly know him but you have to get to know him:he has access to machinery that could kill you.He and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash,his ideals stand in the air, a frozen cloudfrom between his unsmiling lips.And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him,the maniac’s sperm still greasing your thighs,your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confessto him, you are guilty of the crimeof having been forced.And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the familywhom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten,his hand types out the detailsand he wants them allbut the hysteria in your voice pleases him best.You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you:he has taken down you worst momenton a machine and filed it in a file.He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined;he knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted.He has access to machinery that could get you put away;and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,and if, in the sickening light of the precinct,your details sound like a portrait of your confessor,will you swallow, will you deny them, will you lie your way home?
Adrienne Rich
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