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The Gates
Muriel Rukeyser was an American poet and political activist, best known for her poems about equality, feminism, social justice, and Judaism. Kenneth Rexroth said that she was the greatest poet of her "exact generation" This 115-page paperback book presents dozens of her finest poems. "Breathe-in experience, breathe-out poetry." -- Muriel Rukeyser
- GenresPoetry
115 pages, Paperback
First published December 31, 1976
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26 people want to read
About the author
Muriel Rukeyser
84 books155 followersMuriel Rukeyser was an American poet and political activist, best known for her poems about equality, feminism, social justice, and Judaism. Kenneth Rexroth said that she was the greatest poet of her "exact generation".
One of her most powerful pieces was a group of poems entitled The Book of the Dead (1938), documenting the details of the Hawk's Nest incident, an industrial disaster in which hundreds of miners died of silicosis.
Her poem "To be a Jew in the Twentieth Century" (1944), on the theme of Judaism as a gift, was adopted by the American Reform and Reconstructionist movements for their prayer books, something Rukeyser said "astonished" her, as she had remained distant from Judaism throughout her early life.
One of her most powerful pieces was a group of poems entitled The Book of the Dead (1938), documenting the details of the Hawk's Nest incident, an industrial disaster in which hundreds of miners died of silicosis.
Her poem "To be a Jew in the Twentieth Century" (1944), on the theme of Judaism as a gift, was adopted by the American Reform and Reconstructionist movements for their prayer books, something Rukeyser said "astonished" her, as she had remained distant from Judaism throughout her early life.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 25, 2022
In the cave with a long-ago flare
a woman stands, her arm up. Red twig, black twig, brown twig.
A wall of leaping darkness over her.
The men are out hunting in the early light
But here in this flicker, one or two men, painting
and a woman among them.
Great living animals grow on the stone walls,
their pelts, their eyes, their sex, their hearts,
and the cave-painters touch them with life, red, brown, black,
a woman among them, painting.
* * *
Lying in daylight, in the strong
light of all our fantasies,
now touch speaking to touch, touch sees -
night and light, the darkness-stare,
your long look that pierces where
light never came till now -
moving is what we do,
moving we are, searching,
going high and underground,
rain behind rain pouring down,
river under river going
silence on silence
sound under sound.
* * *
What is the skill of this waking? Heard the singing
of that man rambling up Frederick Street in music
and his repeated ecstasy, in a long shaken line.
After many and many a February storm, cyclamen
and many a curtain of rain, the tearing of all curtains
and, as you said, making love and facing the police
in one afternoon. A few bright colours in permanent ink:
black sea, light like streetlight green, blue sees in you
the sun and the moon that stand as your guardians.
And the young bearded rebels and students tearing it all away,
all of it, down to the truth that barefaced naked act of
light, streamings of the courage of the sources,
the sun and the moon that stand at your ears.
* * *
Poem white page white page poem
something is streaming out of a body in waves
something is beginning from the fingertips
they are starting to declare for my whole life
all the despair and the making music
something like wave after wave
that breaks on a beach
something like bringing the entire life
to this moment
the small waves bringing themselves to white paper
something like light stands up and is alive
* * *
remembering movies love
remembering songs
remembering the scenes and flashes of your life
given to me as we lay dreaming
giving dreams
in the sharp flashes of light
raining from the scenes of your life
the faithless stories, adventures, discovery
sexuality opening range after range
and the sharp music driven forever into my life
I sing the movies of your life
the sequence cut in rhythms of collusion
rhythms of linkage, love,
I sing the songs.
* * *
Green going through the jungle of those years
I see the brilliant bodies of the invaders
And the birds cry in the high trees, the sky
Flashes above me in bright crevices; time is,
And I go on and the birds fly blurred
And I pass, my eyes seeing through corpses of dead cells
Glassy, a world hardening with my hardening eyes
My look is through the corpses of all the living
Men and women who stood with me and died before
But my young look still blazes from my changing
Eyes and the jungle asserts fiery green
Even though the trees are the trees of home
And we look out of eyes filled with dead cells
See through these hours, faces of what we are.
* * *
It was like everything else, like everything -
nothing at all like what they say it is.
The petals of iris were slightly cinnamon,
a smooth beard in the mouth
transforming to strong drink,
light violet turning purple in the throat
and flashed and went deep red
burning and burning.
Well, no, more an extreme warmth,
but we thought of burning,
we thought of poisons,
we thought of the closing of the throat
forever, of dying, of the end of song.
We were doing it, you understand,
for the first time.
You were the only one of us who knew
and you saved us, John,
with music, with a
complex
smile.
* * *
Waiting to leave all day I hear the words;
That poet in prison, that poet newly-died
whose words we wear, reading, all of us. I and my son.
All day we read the words:
friends, lovers, daughters, grandson,
and all night the distant loves
and I who had never seen him am drawn to him
Through acts, through poems,
through our closenesses -
whatever links us in our variousness;
across worlds, love and poems and justices
wishing to be born.
a woman stands, her arm up. Red twig, black twig, brown twig.
A wall of leaping darkness over her.
The men are out hunting in the early light
But here in this flicker, one or two men, painting
and a woman among them.
Great living animals grow on the stone walls,
their pelts, their eyes, their sex, their hearts,
and the cave-painters touch them with life, red, brown, black,
a woman among them, painting.
- Painters, pg. 11
* * *
Lying in daylight, in the strong
light of all our fantasies,
now touch speaking to touch, touch sees -
night and light, the darkness-stare,
your long look that pierces where
light never came till now -
moving is what we do,
moving we are, searching,
going high and underground,
rain behind rain pouring down,
river under river going
silence on silence
sound under sound.
- Song: Lying in Daylight, pg. 27
* * *
What is the skill of this waking? Heard the singing
of that man rambling up Frederick Street in music
and his repeated ecstasy, in a long shaken line.
After many and many a February storm, cyclamen
and many a curtain of rain, the tearing of all curtains
and, as you said, making love and facing the police
in one afternoon. A few bright colours in permanent ink:
black sea, light like streetlight green, blue sees in you
the sun and the moon that stand as your guardians.
And the young bearded rebels and students tearing it all away,
all of it, down to the truth that barefaced naked act of
light, streamings of the courage of the sources,
the sun and the moon that stand at your ears.
- For Kay Boyle, pg. 35
* * *
Poem white page white page poem
something is streaming out of a body in waves
something is beginning from the fingertips
they are starting to declare for my whole life
all the despair and the making music
something like wave after wave
that breaks on a beach
something like bringing the entire life
to this moment
the small waves bringing themselves to white paper
something like light stands up and is alive
- Poem White Page White Page Poem, pg. 45
* * *
remembering movies love
remembering songs
remembering the scenes and flashes of your life
given to me as we lay dreaming
giving dreams
in the sharp flashes of light
raining from the scenes of your life
the faithless stories, adventures, discovery
sexuality opening range after range
and the sharp music driven forever into my life
I sing the movies of your life
the sequence cut in rhythms of collusion
rhythms of linkage, love,
I sing the songs.
- Song: Remembering Movies, pg. 53
* * *
Green going through the jungle of those years
I see the brilliant bodies of the invaders
And the birds cry in the high trees, the sky
Flashes above me in bright crevices; time is,
And I go on and the birds fly blurred
And I pass, my eyes seeing through corpses of dead cells
Glassy, a world hardening with my hardening eyes
My look is through the corpses of all the living
Men and women who stood with me and died before
But my young look still blazes from my changing
Eyes and the jungle asserts fiery green
Even though the trees are the trees of home
And we look out of eyes filled with dead cells
See through these hours, faces of what we are.
- Poem, pg. 61
* * *
It was like everything else, like everything -
nothing at all like what they say it is.
The petals of iris were slightly cinnamon,
a smooth beard in the mouth
transforming to strong drink,
light violet turning purple in the throat
and flashed and went deep red
burning and burning.
Well, no, more an extreme warmth,
but we thought of burning,
we thought of poisons,
we thought of the closing of the throat
forever, of dying, of the end of song.
We were doing it, you understand,
for the first time.
You were the only one of us who knew
and you saved us, John,
with music, with a
complex
smile.
- The Iris-Eater, for John Cage, pg. 73
* * *
Waiting to leave all day I hear the words;
That poet in prison, that poet newly-died
whose words we wear, reading, all of us. I and my son.
All day we read the words:
friends, lovers, daughters, grandson,
and all night the distant loves
and I who had never seen him am drawn to him
Through acts, through poems,
through our closenesses -
whatever links us in our variousness;
across worlds, love and poems and justices
wishing to be born.
- The Gates, 1, pg. 85
April 15, 2018
The poems didn't reach me, they read like letters to someone else.
November 16, 2009
I think of Rukeyser as formidable. She towers and casts her reputation in all directions. As a reader clambering over her stoney edifice trying to find handholds of understanding I've been frustrated. But the poems in The Gates were breathtaking. Maybe I've become reader enough to absorb her. I saw these poems clearly and read with pleasure her striking word against word to make idea and theme ignite. I marked several favorites in this slim volume. One is a friendly verse to a favorite of mine, Pablo Neruda, with the astonishing line: "The long defeat that brings us what we know." My reception to The Gates has encluraged me to dig out and dust off the towering Collected Poems I'd attempted before, gotten lost in, and despaired over. I'm inspired and will soon sit again with the larger Rukeyser in my lap, learning her.
January 22, 2008
She's obscure by most standards, but she helped to spark my love of poetry. Rukeyser writes with conviction and grace about social justice and equality. I happened upon this small book while browsing at The Strand, not realizing what an impact it would have.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews