A poem for my female audience

There have - inevitably - been occasions over the years where I've had to be reminded that I'm executing a worthy sort of existence on this planet. My friend Steph has sent me the following poem at least twice, but I suspect it is considerably more than that, both when she is ricocheting about in the depths of despair and when I'm ranting about such things as make it relevant. I can't remember what we must have been talking about a few weeks ago for her to send me this, but I've been meaning to post it on here for the benefit of those who don't generally plunge headlong into anthologies of poems. It is written by Maya Angelou, the embodiment and indeed definition of a 'phenomenal woman'. Angelou was brought up in the Deep South in America, black at a time being black wasn't acceptable; raped at the age of nine by her mother's boyfriend, witness to KKK atrocities, living in a car for part of her youth and a single mother at 16, you'd think if anyone would have cause to fail in life she would have. She has worked as a prostitute, a pimp, a dancer and singer - evolving into one of the principle activists in the Civil Rights Movement, one of the most important and relevant contemporary writers, and someone who will forever be a significant inspiration to me. Anyone who can deal with all life has thrown at her and still come out on top is someone to be honoured (as she has been, with over thirty degrees being bestowed on her, and multiple literary prizes). I went through a phase a while ago of deciding that fiction was utterly pointless and burrowed my way through an extensive pile of autobiographies. Angelou's is by far the most accessible and fascinating life story that I've come across, her six book series starting with, 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings'. (She also has a cracking poem with that title that, contrary to the belief of the majority of English teachers in Hong Kong, is not just about birds...). For anyone who has ever felt a modicum of self pity about anything, I suggest they read these books: they will put your troubles into perspective.
Anyhow, thank you Steph for reminding me of this - yourself a pretty damn phenomenal woman. I miss your version of insanity, come cause some chaos in Hong Kong.


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.

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.