Hello my faithful followers.  I decided to share some of my favorite poetry with you.  None of this was written by me, but by those who most inspire me.  Check back throughout the next week to see more from those I love.

We’re going to start off with my #1 favorite poem.  This poem was written by Sor Juana Ines De La Cruz in get this-the 1600’s.  When you read this poem, you are going to flip out.  Why this woman is so intriguing to me includes the fact that she became obsessed with educating herself in a time where educating a woman was frowned down upon.  She gave up dating and the possibilities of marriage by becoming a nun.  She set learning goals for herself and cut off her hair (at the time a woman’s prize possession) if she did not meet those goals.  Finally she dressed as a boy in order to attend school as girls were not allowed in.

Now I want to remind you that this is a translation and nowhere near as awesome as the Spanish version.  When you read this you will see exactly what I am referring to and the ultimate timelessness of her words.   Let me know your opinions on this masterpiece.

Title:  Redondillas (In English, this means Just Breathe)
Written by:  Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz  in the 1600’s  (I cannot stress the year enough, you’ll see why momentarily.)
Silly, you men-so very adept at wrongly faulting womankind, not seeing you’re alone to blame for faults you plant in woman’s mind.
After you’ve won by urgent plea the right to tarnish her good name, you still expect her to behave– you, that coaxed her into shame.
You batter her resistance down and then, all righteousness, proclaim that feminine frivolity, not your persistence, is to blame.
When it comes to bravely posturing, your witlessness must take the prize: you’re the child that makes a bogeyman, and then recoils in fear and cries.
Presumptuous beyond belief, you’d have the woman you pursue be Thais when you’re courting her, Lucretia once she falls to you.
For plain default of common sense, could any action be so queer as oneself to cloud the mirror, then complain that it’s not clear?
Whether you’re favored or disdained, nothing can leave you satisfied. You whimper if you’re turned away, you sneer if you’ve been gratified.
With you, no woman can hope to score; whichever way, she’s bound to lose; spurning you, she’s ungrateful– succumbing, you call her lewd.
Your folly is always the same: you apply a single rule to the one you accuse of looseness and the one you brand as cruel.
What happy mean could there be for the woman who catches your eye, if, unresponsive, she offends, yet whose complaisance you decry?
Still, whether it’s torment or anger– and both ways you’ve yourselves to blame– God bless the woman who won’t have you, no matter how loud you complain.
It’s your persistent entreaties that change her from timid to bold. Having made her thereby naughty, you would have her good as gold.
So where does the greater guilt lie for a passion that should not be: with the man who pleads out of baseness or the woman debased by his plea?
Or which is more to be blamed– though both will have cause for chagrin: the woman who sins for money or the man who pays money to sin?
So why are you men all so stunned at the thought you’re all guilty alike? Either like them for what you’ve made them or make of them what you can like.
If you’d give up pursuing them, you’d discover, without a doubt, you’ve a stronger case to make against those who seek you out.
I well know what powerful arms you wield in pressing for evil: your arrogance is allied with the world, the flesh, and the devil!