Kate does Assignment 1!
... sort of. Sorry guys, after much rewriting, I ended up breaking the rules; this is a four-parter in which one and four do the mirrored mamba, but I'm left out of the high-fiver symmetry. Deal with it. I love you anyway.
Likeness
I.
Throat hoarse from swallowing the sword
of my mother’s silence, too dumb to know I’m doom
-struck too, I find nothing easy to be true. 1993.
We visited Aunt Sue in southern Jersey where
I stood gaping at a naked skeleton, picked clean
by a painter’s brush, a coyote, a too-blue sky.
What is that? I asked, afraid. Georgia O’Keefe,
she said, She’s famous. It’s called Pelvis.
Pelvis Two. I stuck out
my tongue. Even then, I knew of the coyote, of how
his hunger gnaws and gums, seduces, similes
just a facsimile of tonguecell barbs. The smooth
lick over the hook. Mother.
II.
Lonely as an unopened letter, clinging
to your cotton sweater. 2008. We soaked
in subfusc the day of his death until we
both smelled of salt and sweet meat;
in the moonlight, you played your violin
for the first time in thirty years. Now
I know when you need catgut
strings to sound your voice, you’ve lost a lot
of vice; mother needs her Carlo Rossi on the couch
because it’s the one way she’s got left to sweat
the voices in her head. Sonny & Cher, her
high school hair dresser, daddy’s mutter and
steeltips sounding down the hall. Her
corner-facing and curled-up
in the closet, shivering
as if what’s coming were winter.
III.
She gave me this anger and I coined it
for currency. A favorite fare in the pulpit: preaching
the art of Monarch mimicry—how being deprived
made the Viceroy butterfly better for wear, richer
in appearance, though most important
she survived.
IV.
I find it very, very easy to be true.
From the faraway, nearby, she moves
over her new lover. She is the ivy in potent
dark, another slow-as-supper afternoon. See,
widows’ sex serves up a generous hunger. Your
lips taste like blood, she says. And I’m happy for her
if not for another simile. A slick that fits the slot.
Prescience, picked clean: a mother’s eyes inside
her daughter’s face, what’s told in the shape
of a pelvic bone.
wolves! coyotes! oh my!
ReplyDeletebut seriously. i have to step my game. damn.
ps-
i was totally writing this exact poem last night..strange synergy
pps-
the sense of sound in this poem astounds me
man i am so fucking glad we did this, dudes. i am on the edge of my seat!
ReplyDeletekate - more specific comments later, but so far i loves it.
"too dumb to know I'm doom/ -struck too"
ReplyDeleteThis phrase excites me so much. It calls to mind Heather McHugh, but with more intention than her purer experimentalism. The language is slick, but so deliciously pointed.
I'm also interested in some of the similarities in tone/language play of our poems. I think my poem is less astute (intentionally) in the way it uses language in general but there's something carnal about both these poems that I appreciate.
Read both of our poems in any order and then read them in the opposite order. The almost-grotesque sexuality, the sense of emptiness/fullness, the sense of pervasive hunger and ache.
They're good compliments, I think, and a good pair to start the blog with.
In terms of criticism:
- The ending is solid, slick and spare. But there's something strange about it. It's almost too perfect. Its almost the ending you expect. Does that make sense? The clean-neatness of it. I wish I could say something more productive. I love it but I think it might be too clean a way to wrap up such an emotionally/tonally messy poem.
- "similies / just a facsimile..."
I think this is one place where your language play doesn't feel essential. It's clever, but neither necessary to the narrative nor to the strength of the verse.
(and in non-criticism. again.)
"you've lost a lot / of vice."
FLAWLESS. (out of context)
FLAWLESS. (in context)
I tots concur about the play b/e our poems, and must say that I'd only written ~2/3 of this until your shindig came along and shimmied me the right way. You're an inspiration, and that's what this blog is s'posed to be for. Also B, it's time we outed ourselves to the world as poet-activist soulmates.
ReplyDeleteAnd more power to ya, Alesia, 'cuz I try to (re)write this poem all the time. Le sigh.
But thanks for all the comments, all around.
And I agree about the last stanza; I wanted it to feel "picked clean by a painter's brush," but I'm not sure it works.
sorry for the delay kate, wanted to spend some time thinking deeply on your writing. apologies in advance if something I wrote echoes earlier comments.
ReplyDelete“likeness” is a pretty bold motherfucking title, my love, but go you for it.
now, I’m not one for narrative poems, but I think it’s because I worry the narrative gets in the way of the play. and I feel like that’s happening a decent amount here. the second stanza of section 1 is good, with lovely details, but when it starts to get a little too narrative-y, the voice seems to recoil and apostrophes the coyote and falls onto sound repetition. I think the balance isn’t quite here yet. othertimes the narrative is perfect – the Carlo sweating the voices is a favorite. Just gotta keep it marbled.
I like grotesque sexuality, but the nipples/coyote eyes / cupidity line is also really, really awkwardly funny. it’s a weird declarative to make. And though I have no intrinsic problem with it, I worry that I shouldn’t be chuckling.
So much excellent language here. tonguecell barbs, soaked in subfusc (I recognize that!), etc. Bendi mentioned this above, but sometimes your line breaks seem to function for cleverness – i.e. “similies / just a facsimilie”. And ending “I’m doom” with the break “-struck too” softens the punch. Let me take it.
I’m going to disagree slightly with bendi and say the final stanza, while maybe not perfect (but what the fuck ever is?) is brilliant in “what’s told in the shape / of a pelvic bone.” that is a brilliant motherfucking line, that knocks me over. the 1.5 lines before it are okay, but not propulsive like those. Its relying on some format of exposition and explanation, but I’m not positive the explanation is needed.
The lines about finding “true” and “easy” are really wonderful. and my god, “widows’ sex serves up a generous hunger” is the kind of line that reaches in my body and tears everything from me. “a slick that fits the slot” is almost impossibly a.) dirty and b.) impenetrable, and I love you for that.
ReplyDeleteI notice that II and III both seem to take a while to get firing consistently. This, as said before, might be my bias, but I really want to have a scene painted in a totally fresh way, so if that means sacrificing narrative comprehensibility, I could give a fuck. I feel II and III are darting between the two, and like earlier there are moments of speaker recoil where the tone and syntactical approach bounce to another place real quick, which leads me to think that some of the story bits need tweaking. The list is good for the steeltips sounding, but sonny and cher and high school hair dresser are weird sorts of dead weight – they set a kind of scene, but not always a unique one.
Also, coyote is a bit of a loaded word to use around me. I’ve read so many fucking poems that involved coyotes this year that I’m damn near ready to codify a coyote cliché. But, who knows.
Wonderful sounds, and a wonderful poem. I think sometimes the sounds, especially sounds that feel specifically arranged for like phonetics, make the piece feel precious. it isn’t, and I don’t know that the work can afford to be precious and clever.
Love the butterfly in III, and I’d more viceroy, less hamburger helper.
your lips taste like blood. and I love how your blood tastes, kate. I love it. I love you. goddamnit I love this site.
JP
Thanks, dear. Slurp, slurp, slurp.
ReplyDeleteI'm going to continue to edit this piece. As the poem changes off-site, I'll update it here. Now it represents the changes I actually made before posting, but was curious as to see what all y'all thought with more, more words & wickers.
The list of "Sonny & Cher..." is the one thing I've debated over a lot and still want to keep; it weights the stanza down, but DAMN, aren't a drunk mother's memories always cliche? That's all I ever hear from the woman, and I want a little sense of that exhaustion in the poem. I just gotta find a way to smooth it out.
We can work it out, in real time, in interweb packets and prime hide.
LOVE THIS BLOG.
LOVE YOU.
In all seriousness, this blog has given me not only something to write for, but a feeling of increased connectedness that excites me for the coming days. And there'll be a fuckin lot of 'em. I'm just about to turn 23, my dears.
Yes.