The destination

  Lördagarna med Womanhood har i mitt tycke varit den starkaste bloggdagen under årets inledande veckor. Maya Angelou, Marilyn Hacker och senast Elizabeth Austen har verkligen bidragit med kvalitet. 
  I kväll blir det en författare som kan väldigt mycket om lyrik. Hon har skrivit flera essäer i ämnet. 
  Tyvärr har sonens influensa hittat in i min kropp och jag har inte varit tillräckligt fräsch i knoppen för att kunna ta till mig Jane Hirshfields filosofiska dikter. Men jag publicerar ändå två exempel från hennes bok After.

***

  Jane Hirshfield (f. 1953) publicerade sin första dikt 1973, strax efter examen från Princeton som en medlem av universitetets första årskull i vilken kvinnor inkluderades.
  Hon la ned sitt skrivande under nästan åtta år för att studera vid San Francisco Zen Center. Det här sökandet har hon sedan fortsatt med både i essäer och i sin lyrik.

The destination, by Jane Hirshfield
(from After : poems. New York : HarperCollins, 2006.)

I wanted something, I wanted. I could not have it.
Irremediable rock of refusal, this world thick with bird song,
tender with starfish and apples.
How calming to say, “Turn right at the second corner,”
and be understood,
and see things arrive as they should at their own destination.
Yet we speak in riddles–
“Turn back at the silence.” “Pass me the mountain.”
To the end we each nod, pretending to understand.

***

The monk stood beside a wheelbarrow, by Jane Hirshfield
(from After : poems. New York : HarperCollins, 2006.)

The monk stood beside a wheelbarrow, weeping.

God or Buddha nowhere to be seen --
these tears were fully human,
bitter, broken,
falling onto the wheelbarrow's rusty side.

They gathered at its bottom,
where the metal drank them in to make more rust.

You cannot know what you do in this life, what you have done.

The monk stood weeping.
I knew I also had a place on this hard earth.

***

  Jag hade tänkt skriva mer om Jane Hirshfield men jag orkar inte idag. Jag får återgälda henne en annan gång. Jag ger er istället en av hennes aforismer.

Maple, by Jane Hirshfield
(from After : poems. New York : HarperCollins, 2006.)

The lake scarlets
the same instant as the maple.
Let others try to say this is not passion.

Let the curtain fall

  Även inför presentationen av staten Washingtons Poet Laureate lyckades jag räkna fel. Elizabeth Austen har alldeles nyligen lämnat över stafettpinnen till Tod Marshall. Men det struntar jag fullständigt i. Hennes enda utgivna diktsamling, Every dress a decision, är nämligen "damn good!"
  Hon var den av de tio utvalda statspoeterna som jag var mest tveksam till på förhand. En del tvivel försvann när jag läste Jane Hirshfields kommentar på bokomslaget. Resten blåstes bort efter den sjätte dikten, den som inspirerat till bokens titel.

**

Scene: Hotel, Interior / Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)

he holds over his head   her dress
vacant and anonymous    her body
folds    her mind    a curtain dropping

the soundtrack next door
porn's percussive
dialogue      laughter

the dress a banner over his head
a blank flag   a page he turns
from a script her body won't recite

a houseful of locks
clicks shut      her refusal
a body between them

she takes the dress from his hand
fills the dress with her decision
wraps her arms over her clothed breasts

he empties his eyes    the dress
a mistranslated subtitle   a trailer
with no feature

he offers one foot to each pant leg
accepts the sigh of his zipper     a clock
gathers their silence

***

  Som tonåring började Elizabeth Austen skriva poesi, men skrivandet var inte i fokus för henne förrän hon var i trettioårsåldern. "Jag ville bli klassisk skådespelare som barn. - Jag tränade som en klassisk skådespelare, och det var så jag började uppskatta ett rikt språk och så fick jag träna poetry out loud", berättade hon för Seattles författarmagasin.

  I intervjun berättade hon lite om hur diktsamlingen kom till. 
  "I had always wanted to go to Peru and Ecuador and Bolivia, so I sold my car one day and bought a one-way ticket to South America. I traveled around for six months in the Andes region. I wrote a lot and journaled," she said. "When I came back, I planned to do another dance theatre performance, but then my eldest brother died - he was 37 years old and living in Prague. It threw my family into a crisis."

  Tidsperspektiv är temat för följande dikt, och den är jag mycket förtjust i.

Leaving the island, by Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)

                                ferry from Orcas to Anacortes

Orcas Island ferry

Mist-colored knots of sea glass. A moss-clot
cadged from the trail’s edge. The truce

fished word by word from beneath the surface,
still unspoken. We carry what we found

what we made there. Three days you and I
let the currents direct our course, slept

on cool sand, let woodsmoke flavor us.
What’s left? Slow travel over cold water.

Toward home and days ordered by clocks
instead of tides. We watch through salt-scarred

windows, hoping the dark shapes will rise
beside us, will grace us. We know too well

what can’t be willed, only missed
if we look away too soon.

***

  När man läser hennes intervjusvar tycks det som om det kan dröja länge tills hon har nya bokprojekt på gång. Det känns helt otillfredsställande, för redan efter första genomläsningen av Every dress a decision så önskade jag mig mer.

More, one more / Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)

I claim I’ll go still
full of curiosity.
But darling we both know
I always want one more
kiss, another drag
off the scent of your neck.
No reason to think I’ll die
differently than I live —
hungry for one more mouthful
of honey, craving another blossom’s 
cargo of yellow, more,
one more bass note 
caressing my sternum, one more 
saltwater swim.

I’m sure to try
to pull along some 
cone or frond,
grain of sand
in my swimsuit, pistachio 
stuck in my teeth —
to praise this world
by hauling what I can
into the next.
Darling, sweet pants,
don’t stand
too close
at the end.

Not holding back when fire is going

  Äntligen har jag fått chansen att läsa Lucille Cliftons samlade verk (som jag har väntat). Eller rättare sagt, jag har påbörjat läsningen av de drygt 700 sidorna. Till det här inlägget har jag koncentrerat urvalet till diktsamlingen "Two-headed woman" från 1980.

Lucille Clifton

***

  Lucille Sayles Clifton föddes i Depew, New York, till Samuel L. och Thelma Moore Sayles . Hennes far arbetade för New Yorks stålverk; hennes mor var tvätterska och hemmafru. Även om föräldrarna var formellt lågutbildade, så såg de till att deras stora familj hade ett överflöd av böcker, särskilt de av afroamerikaner. Vid sextons ålder började Lucille studera vid Howard University i Washington DC.

  Poeten Robert Hayden skickade in hennes dikter till tävlingen YW - YMHA Poetry Center Discovery Award, 1969. Hon vann priset och med det publiceringen av sin första volym av dikter, Good Times.
  Hennes diktsamling Two-Headed Woman (1980) var nominerad till Pulitzer-priset och den vann The Juniper Prize som delas ut av The University of Massachusetts. Källa: University of Illinois, "Modern American poetry".

En mycket ung Lucille Clifton.
Lucille Clifton papers, MARBL at Emory University.

***

Homage to my hips, by Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)
(from The collected poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010 ; [Two-headed woman]. Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, 2012.)

These hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
They don't fit into little
petty places. These hips
are free hips.
They don't like to be held back.
These hips have never been enslaved,   
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
These hips are mighty hips.
These hips are magic hips.
I have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

***

  I minnesartikeln i New Yorker sammanfattade Elizabeth Alexander hennes författargärning och erinrade om ett citat från Lucille Clifton.

  "... Clifton had six children and made poems not in “a room of one’s own” but, rather, at the proverbial kitchen table, with family life proceeding around her. “Why do you think my poems are so short?” she would often say, with a laugh, when people would ask how she managed to write so many books." (hämtat från "Remembering Lucille Clifton", The New Yorker, 2010-02-17.)

*

To Thelma who worried because I couldn't cook, by Lucille Clifton
(from The collected poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010 ; [Two-headed woman]. Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, 2012.)

Because no man would taste you
you tried to feed yourself
kneading your body
with your own fists, the beaten thing
rose up lika a dough

and burst in the oven of your hunger.
Madam, I'm not your gifted girl,
I am a woman and
I know what to do.

***

  Jag ger er ytterligare ett stycke från ovan nämnda artikel för det passar så bra till den avslutande dikten "New Year". Jag gillar verkligen slutmetaforen, "but she opens herself to the risk of flame and walks toward an ocean of days".

  "Few poets have written so convincingly of celebration. Clifton invites the reader to celebrate survival: a poet’s survival against the struggles and sorrows of disease, poverty, and attempts at erasure of those who are poor, who are women, who are vulnerable, who challenge conquistador narratives. There is luminous joy in these poems, as they speak against silence and hatred."
("Remembering Lucille Clifton", by Elizabeth Alexander. The New Yorker, 2010-02-17.)

New Year, by Lucille Clifton
(from The collected poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010 ; [Two-headed woman]. Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, 2012.)

Lucy
by Sam
out of Thelma
limps down a ramp
toward the rest of her life.
With too many candles
in her hair
she is a princess of
burning buildings
leaving the year that
tried to consume her.
Her hands are bright
as they witch for water
and even her tears cry
fire    fire
but she opens herself
to the risk of flame and
walks toward an ocean
of days.

A memory of youth

  Sjunde kvinnan i lördagsbloggen är irländska Eavan Boland. Hon har förekommit tidigare, men den här gången blir det hennes senaste bok A woman without a country.

Holy Child Secondary School
Killiney, Dublin

***

  Fast hon är född och utbildad i Dublin, och bildade sin familj där, så har Eavan Boland också bott i USA och i London som barn. Hennes senaste diktsamling, A woman without a country, upptar några av de kontraster och motsägelser som kommer från att leva på en plats utan att känna att man tillhör det till fullo. Källa: Stanford University

  Men för den sakens skull så hindrar det inte henne att skriva så här vackert om födelselandet.

As, by Eavan Boland
(from A woman without a country : poems. New York : W.W. Norton & Company, 2014.)

A squeak of light. Ocean air looking
to come inland, to test its influence on
the salty farms waking.

Mist lifts. The distance 
reappears. In an hour or so

someone will say crystal clear 
even though there is 
no truth in it since even now
the ground is clouding its ions and atoms.

The sun is up; day begins. 
Someone else says dry as dust.
But this is outside Dublin in 
summer: last night’s storm 
left clay and water mixed together.

Phoenix Park

The afternoon is long and warm.
The branch of one tree angles to 
its own heaviness. While everywhere,
everywhere it continues: language 
crossing the impossible 
with the proverbial —

until no one any longer wants 
a world where as is not preferred 
to its absence. Nor a fiddle not fit, 
nor a whistle not clean,
nor rain not right again.

I am walking home. A quarter moon 
rises in the whitebeams.
At the next turn houses appear,
mine among them.

I walk past leaves,
grass, one bicycle. I put my key in the lock.

In a little while I will say safe as.

***

  Genom att problematisera frågor om nation och kön i boken, så har hon funnit ytterligare ett tillvägagångssätt för att bearbeta de teman som har varit utgångspunkter under hela hennes karriär. Källa: Stanford University

  Och det blir knappast mer symboliskt än i nedanstående dikt.

An Island of Daughters, by Eavan Boland
(from A woman without a country : poems. New York : W.W. Norton & Company, 2014.)

Always the same dream,
the one in which
I unstitch the gall ink
and script
from great books,
unbuild Georgian squares,
push aside the waters
the Vikings sailed
and find myself
at last on
an island of daughters.

In which the river, the millrace,
the mulberry trees
stripped of leaves,
stripped of history, the breeze,
even the war memorials
to who we fought
and who fought us
speak with one voice
about the sadness,
the remembrance,
the wretchedness of daughters.

In which there is only
monochrome on
the edge of evening, at
the end of the horizon,
not the thigh-deep grasses
of Ferguson, the magenta seas
of Mangan's dirge,
no refrain, no celebration,
just shadows
of women in
the shadow of a nation.

River Liffey, Dublin

In which a girl
makes her way home in
the predawn,
to a street near the Liffey,
lets herself in, sensing
the blue air of reprimand
that goes with moonlight;
her foot falling
on the one step on the stair
that makes noise,
then a pause; then a voice calling.

Sky view of Paris

  Kvällens författarinna är mycket skärpt, vilket avspeglas i såväl hennes språkliga formuleringar som hennes bildningsnivå. Hon är numera pensionerad professor efter att ha undervisat i engelska vid City College of New York. Hon tilldelades National Book Award (1974) för sin debutsamling Presentation Piece, och hon har vunnit priser för sina översättningar. 

  Kvällens bok är Desesperanto: Poems 1999-2002, av Marilyn Hacker.

***

  Marilyn Hacker (f. 1942 ) är en poet vars verk kombinerar det politiska och det personliga, det traditionella med det radikala. Hon är en New Yorker, född i Bronx till judiska föräldrar. Hacker var en brådmogen student, hon inledde sina studier vid New York University, när hon var bara femton år. Hennes kärnämnen var naturvetenskap men hon utvecklade också intressen för filosofi och fransk litteratur. Källa: Poetry Archive

  Jag älskade verkligen det tredje och avslutande segmentet i boken, som gett samlingen dess namn. De tjugofyra dikterna i tredje delen är skrivna i Frankrike, och flera av dem har franska titlar. Mitt första diktval präglas av en delikat rytm.

Explication de texte (four stanzas), by Marilyn Hacker
(from Desesperanto : poems, 1999-2002. New York : W.W. Norton, 2003.)

Paris is wintery gray.
The small rain spits and sputters.
Before the break of day
when green trucks hose the gutters
lights go on in the bakery.

The days go on, routine
light lingers on the clocks
Yellow and red and green
crowd in the window box
impermanent and benign.

The tiny sans-abri
and her more substantial friend
arrive from a night on the quay
at their avenue, extend
their hands to earn their pay,

each on her opposite side.
They've been on the street together
for over a decade
while others jettisoned other
partners and promises made.

***

  Och hur många poeter är kapabla att skriva fyra sonetter på ämnet migrän. Jag ger er den första ...

Migraine Sonnets (first sonnet), by Marilyn Hacker
(from Desesperanto : poems, 1999-2002. New York : W.W. Norton, 2003.)

It's a long way from the bedroom to the kitchen
when all the thought in back of thought is loss.
How wide the dark rooms are you walk across
with a glass of water and a migraine
tablet. Sweat of hard dreams: unforgiven
silences, missed opportunities.
The night progresses like chronic disease,
symptom by symptom, sentences without pardon.
It's only half past two, you realize.
Five windows are still lit across the street.
You wonder: did you tell as many lies
as it now appears were told to you?
And if you told them, how did you not know
they were lies? Did you know, and then forget?

***

  Nedanstående citat från Poetry Archive utgör en träffande beskrivning av hennes poetiska stil, och den avslutande dikten följer mallen. Även huvudvärken återkommer hos författaren.

  "Her use of form has been interpreted by some critics as subversive, a "taking on" of traditional male territory, but Hacker has denied this, saying her love of form is "purely hedonistic". What is incontrovertible is her technical brilliance in allying form to a brash, contemporary language so that her poems seem both spontaneous and perfectly controlled. The stuff of life - people, places, food, politics - has remained her material, her poems busy with incident and restless energy.". Citat från poetryarchive.org

February 10, by Marilyn Hacker
(from Desesperanto : poems, 1999-2002. New York : W.W. Norton, 2003.)

Inarticulate, the dream subsides in growls.
Nothing as human as clean sentences.
Nothing as cleansing as repentance.  Was
some life left folded into plush blue towels
and 200-plus thread all-cotton sheets
like a housewifely sachet of lavender?

I've learned the answer or I haven't, or
the question balances, repeats, repeats
day after night into the cotton's cool
and solitary folds, the resurrected
light I look into with unprotected
eyes.  Sometimes the sky is beautiful.
Sometimes despair is as habitual
as walking in the morning to the train
station to be in class on time, as plain
yogurt, as grapefruit juice, steady and dull
as the seventeenth hour of a migraine
all evening long, still with me when I wake.
And don't I often trigger a headache
refilling glass on solo glass of wine?
Isn't there something clearer about pain
than year-old grief gone tarnished with its dull
blade, with its blotched skin, with its bad smell?
The dusk recedes again, or afternoon
extends itself, life measured against light:
how new, how much repeated, for how long,
whether, and how profoundly, I was wrong,
whether, in what ignorance, I was right.

Plains and legends

  Ikväll landar bloggen i Nebraska hos deras Poet Laureate, Twyla M. Hansen. Hon tillträdde posten i december 2013 och kommer att inneha posten till november 2018.

  Twyla M. Hansen (f. 1949) växte upp i nordöstra Nebraska på mark som hennes morföräldrar odlade i slutet av 1800-talet. De var invandrare från Danmark. Hon bor och arbetar i Lincoln, där hennes trädbevuxna mark upprätthålls som "urban wildlife habitat". Det är av betydelse att nämna hennes engagemang för naturens livsmiljöer eftersom det genomsyrar hennes dikter.

  Hennes senaste bok, Dirt Songs: A Plains Duet (Backwaters Press 2011), är ett samarbete med Linda Hasselstrom. Boken vann 2012 Nebraska Book Award för poesi, och var finalist till the Willa Literary Award och till High Plains Book Award. 

  Hennes nordiska rötter behandlas med en "twist" i dikten "Saga".

Saga, by Twyla M. Hansen
(from Dirt songs : a plains duet : poems. Omaha, Neb. : Backwaters Press, 2011.)

They're still at it, waging battles worthy of a Viking
headline som ten centuries later, those northern
legendaries who stormed sea and land by boat.

Stockholm had declared itself the Capital of
Scandinavia. Copenhagen responded, flexing
muscle, attempting to retake its 16th-century trademark.

And it seems IKEA, the furniture giant, uses Swede
names for its shiniest, comfiest furnishings while Danish
towns are relegated to doormats, rugs and carpets.

No accident, according to one critic. "It is exactly 350 years
since Swedes took the Halland, Skåne and Blekinge regions
from Denmark." Demographic lessons die hard.

Raiders with style, the Vikings turned out to be
technologists ahead of their time, builders of sophisticated
ships and towns, and not just bear-skinned berserkers.

But with all those fjords and feuds between them, who can
blame one or the other for claiming Odin to be on his side?
As it happened in this country, too, late 19th century,

whenn my Dane grandfather registered for citizenship
at the county courthouse, the Swede clerk entered
granddad's name ending in "son" instead of "sen".

Half a world from their homelands, the Swede shrugged,
said it didn't matter, while at his mercy Hans Peter Wilhelm
Paulsen knowing blødende well it did.

***

  Hon har varit presentatör åt The Humanities Nebraska Speaker’s Bureau sedan 1992, och arbetat med läs- och diskussionsprogram samt workshops över hela Nebraska. 
  Nu har hon ett liknande program genom The Nebraska Arts Council. Sedan hon blev Poet Laureate har hon skapat en Facebook-sida för att ytterligare kunna sprida artiklar, nyheter, dikter, länkar till webbsidor och andra föremål av intresse för poeter, författare och läsare i Nebraska.

Taking the Young Child, by Twayla M. Hansen
(from Dirt songs : a plains duet : poems. Omaha, Neb. : Backwaters Press, 2011.)

I take the young child to see the blossoms:
four-direction openings of the pure white cross -

Cornus. She is only three, yet she knows of gift,
rises on her tiptoes to inhale it. But of suffering?

The pain of storms, covering my ears when branches
twist and fall from unseasonable weather. Oh

dogwood of the southern hardwood forests, I worry
over your misplaced finery, your tender display.

The young child, without hesitation, gathers each
bloom - lilac, tulip, viburnum - imprinting spring.

Her eyes are hazel, lips a cupid rose, hair the silk
of maplewood, her face the flower I bend to kiss.

The construction of a woman

  Dagens författarinna fyller 80 år om två månader. Hon har gett ut nitton diktsamlingar och nästan lika många romaner. Flera av dem har en grundläggande feministisk karaktär. Hon har en rätt särpräglad språklig stil, som en del nog skulle benämna "icke-akademisk".

  Jag har läst What are big girls made of?, av Marge Piercy. Jag utgår ifrån titeldikten och eftersom den är ganska lång nöjer jag mig med ytterligare ett textutdrag från en annan dikt.

***

***

  Marge Piercy föddes i Detroit, Michigan, i en arbetarfamilj som hade drabbats hårt av depressionen. Piercy var den första medlemmen av sin familj att gå på college, att vinna ett stipendium för att studera vid University of Michigan.

  Piercys poesi är känd för sin mycket personliga, ofta arga och mycket känslosamma klang. Hon skriver en snabb fri vers som visar samma engagemang för sociala och miljömässiga frågor som hennes romaner gör. Källa: Poetry Foundation

What are big girls made of?, av Marge Piercy (f. 1936)
(from What are big girls made of? : poems. New York : Knopf, 1997.)

  The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh 
of bone and sinew 
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe. 
She is manufactured like a sports sedan. 
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned 
every decade.

Cecile had been seduction itself in college. 
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel, 
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed 
in the dark red lipstick of desire. 

She visited in '68 still wearing skirts 
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick, 
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt, 
lipstick pale as apricot milk, 
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear, 
I thought in my superiority of the moment, 
whatever has happened to poor Cecile? 
She was out of fashion, out of the game, 
disqualified, disdained, dis- 
membered from the club of desire. 

Look at pictures in French fashion 
magazines of the 18th century: 
century of the ultimate lady 
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting. 
Paniers bring her hips out three feet 
each way, while the waist is pinched 
and the belly flattened under wood. 
The breasts are stuffed up and out 
offered like apples in a bowl. 
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper 
never meant for walking. 
On top is a grandiose headache: 
hair like a museum piece, daily 
ornamented with ribbons, vases, 
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full 
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy 
of a hairdresser turned loose. 
The hats were rococo wedding cakes 
that would dim the Las Vegas strip. 
Here is a woman forced into shape 
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh: 
a woman made of pain. 

How superior we are now: see the modern woman 
thin as a blade of scissors. 
She runs on a treadmill every morning, 
fits herself into machines of weights 
and pulleys to heave and grunt, 
an image in her mind she can never 
approximate, a body of rosy 
glass that never wrinkles, 
never grows, never fades. She 
sits at the table closing her eyes to food 
hungry, always hungry: 
a woman made of pain. 

A cat or dog approaches another, 
they sniff noses. They sniff asses. 
They bristle or lick. They fall 
in love as often as we do, 
as passionately. But they fall 
in love or lust with furry flesh, 
not hoop skirts or push up bras 
rib removal or liposuction. 
It is not for male or female dogs 
that poodles are clipped 
to topiary hedges. 

If only we could like each other raw. 
If only we could love ourselves 
like healthy babies burbling in our arms. 
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed 
to need what is sold us. 
Why should we want to live inside ads? 
Why should we want to scourge our softness 
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting? 
Why should we punish each other with scorn 
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?

***

  En av hennes mest kända prosadikter är "Barbie Doll", från 1971!!, i vilken hon tar upp hur ett patriarkalt samhälle sätter förväntningar och tryck på kvinnor, genom könsrollsstereotyper. Den berättar en historia om en flicka som dör när hon försöker möta orealistiska förväntningar som samhället håller för henne. Källa: Wikipedia

  Det andra textavsnittet från kvällens diktsamling följer ett liknande tema, som i dikten "Barbie Doll".

**

For two women shot to death in Brookline, Massachusetts, by Marge Piercy
(from What are big girls made of? : poems. New York : Knopf, 1997.)

...

A young man is angry at women
women who say no
women who say maybe and mean no
women who won't
women who do and they shouldn't
If they are pregnant they are bad
because that proves
they did it with someone
they did it
and should die.

A man gets angry with a woman
who decides to leave him
who decides to walk off
who decides to walk
who decides.
...