Female Poetry?

Raul Lushbaugh: Maya Angelou, Elizabeth Barett Browning and Emily Dickinson all have some really beautiful poetry. Just give 'em a Google search and you can probably find an anthology of all of their poetry, as well as some other women poets. Good luck with the assignment! :)

Giovanni Malool: Margaret Atwood actually wrote short stories that changed the original meaning behind the "traditional children's fairytales" and made them into more darker and satiryical observations on the psychological dynamics between men and woman. By transforming the original fairytale into a different form, the author was challanging the basic notions of male power (and control) of women's fertility and women's freedom of choice. Margaret Atwood (b. 1939) the Canadian writer, is familiar to readers all over the world as the author of some of the finest and most influential fiction of the last few decades. Titles like The Handmaid's Tale, Alias Grace, and The Robber Bride have won many a! wards, sold in their millions and have been made into films. Maybe you wouldnt have to memorise the entire thing, perhaps just an excerpt:Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing by Margaret Atwood The world is full of womenwho'd tell me I should be ashamed of myselfif they had the chance. Quit dancing.Get some self-respectand a day job.Right. And minimum wage,and varicose veins, just standingin one place for eight hoursbehind a glass counterbundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich.Selling gloves, or something.Instead of what I do sell.You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulousand without material form.Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any wayyou cut it, but I've a choiceof how, and I'll take the money.I do give value.Like preachers, I sell vision,like perfume ads, desireor its facsimile. Like jokesor war, it's all in the timing.I sell men back their worse suspicions:that everything's for sale,and piecemeal. They gaze at me and seea chain-saw murder! just before it happens,when thigh, ***, inkblot, crevice, tit! , and nippleare still connected.Such hatred leaps in them,my beery worshippers! That, or a blearyhopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploringbut ready to snap at my ankles,I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants. I keep the beat,and dance for them becausethey can't. The music smells like foxes,crisp as heated metalsearing the nostrilsor humid as August, hazy and languorousas a looted city the day after,when all the rape's been donealready, and the killing,and the survivors wander aroundlooking for garbageto eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.Speaking of which, it's the smilingtires me out the most. This, and the pretencethat I can't hear them.And I can't, because I'm after alla foreigner to them.The speech here is all warty gutturals,obvious as a slab of ham,but I come from the province of the godswhere meanings are lilting and oblique.I don't let on to everyone,but lean close, and I'll whisper:My mother was raped by a! holy swan.You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. That's what we tell all the husbands.There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.Not that anyone herebut you would understand.The rest of them would like to watch meand feel nothing. Reduce me to componentsas in a clock factory or abattoir.Crush out the mystery.Wall me up alivein my own body. They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaquethan absolute transparency.Look--my feet don't hit the marble!Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,I hover six inches in the airin my blazing swan-egg of light.You think I'm not a goddess?Try me.This is a torch song.Touch me and you'll burn....Show more

Delmy Varano: difficult task. search onto the search engines. that can help!