THE VISCERAL

Jonathan Mayhew writes:

I guess the urge to eliminate ornament is part of that whole puritanical strain. Like Horace decrying Persian luxury or Antonio Machado rejecting Rubén Darío’s verbal excess. If you try to purify poetry, get rid of its “poetic” and sentimental attachments, you end up with nothing. It seems like these elements are extraneous, but they end up being inseparable from whatever it is you want to preserve.

Maybe I’ll let that be the last word on ornament for a while (except to say that, since I took up this topic, I keep hearing that awful song, “You…you decorated my life” everywhere I go). Now I want to move on to the notion of THE VISCERAL. The ikky, the sloppy, the disconcerting, the horrifying and/or nasty, the blatantly sexshall or the simply gooey.

_The Smear Test_

It was nothing to worry about, for it was not

intimidating, but funny almost, the slurpy sounds

that flapped from her vagina as he cranked it open;

the modesty blanket, that veiled no one’s view but hers,

as though she’d gag to see her sex exposed.

It was comedy, the way she had to splay

her thighs wide enough to welcome a rugby squad.

And it was nothing to worry about, for it was not

painful, but tender almost, the spatula nosing

into her tight hole like a coy mouse, an elfin penis,

a fork gently testing the haddock is cooked through.

No, it was nothing to worry about.

And if her boyfriend hadn’t told her that later,

pissed as a cunt and weeping like a raped whore,

she had hit him and hit him and screamed, ‘Fuck off

and don’t touch me, don’t ever fucking touch me,’

she would never have dwelt on it.

Except for its content, this is a totally normal poem, correct? There’s not even a taste of the semantic or syntactic dislocation we have come to expect from poems nowadays. Neither I nor anyone I know would ever write such a poem as this. And yet I like it very much. If I am going to read a poem that exhibits “control” of the “medium” of language and “mastery” of the “craft” of poetry, this is the sort of poem I want to read — not the “avant-garde” version that basically serves as a ruefully nostalgic, apologetic sort of middle ground for poets who secretly wish that everything really can be made to cohere. Not that I’m referring to anyone in particular here.This poem is sharp and amusing and sad and emotionally devastating all at once, for all its facility and well-schooled rhetorical cleverness. So what, besides its topic, makes it “visceral”? In large part, it’s those verbs: crank, flap, gag, splay — we’re almost in the realm of comic book language. And the bizarre metaphors — the medical spatula a “coy mouse” [why not a gerbil? i think this writer would not have shied away from the larger rodent had it scanned properly], an “elfin penis” [ewww!], or the muscles of the vagina as so much whitefish, prodded by a fork. Or how about that word, “slurpy’? Accurate, isn’t it, yoginis? It’s the divergence between the propriety and control of the form and the violence of the subject matter and diction that makes this poem a kind of sick pleasure to read. Like seducing a Catholic schoolgirl, I imagine.

The poet seems to have learned all her lessons from Auden. Her “Work and Lunch” is an updated version of “The Unknown Citizen.” I won’t quote it, as I’m trying to focus on “the visceral”, and after I quote just one more poem of hers, I will tell you more about her:

My Bed

Tracy Emin lives down the road from me,

and recently’s had notable acclaim

due to a certain bed. As poetry’s

in need of press, I thought I’d do the same —

show you the place I slept and dreamt and came!

Admittedly, it’s not in the best taste,

but self-promotion must be in-yer-face.

The bed’s not strictly mine, more my boyfriends’

given him by his sister, which was nice.

It’s broken, but it’s okay for our ends —

insomnia’s a poet’s favorite vice.

So now the guided tour — just some advice —

don’t sniff too deep, I haven’t washed the sheets

for weeks, and there may be a tang of yeast.

Here is the pillow where my sleepy head

has left an indent, like a world war bomb.

Here’s the wet patch, and here is where I said:

Of you’re getting a drink please get me one,’

the snot that I fished out when he was gone,

and sneaked under the valance; the mishap

where I splodged gravy, eating off my lap.

Here is the duvet, under which I sweat

through many a long, dark night of the heart,

where I wrote “Knowledge’, ‘Post’, and other hits,

the dark and foetal hothouse of my art.

Where bedbugs gnaw my flesh, and cut skin starts

to be repaired. It’s here I get whiny

when it seems football’s always on TV.

Not intimate enough? Here’s a cum-rag

that’s fallen down the side and not been seen —

observe its crisp petals and grubby clag.

Imagine I am wiping myself clean!

And from the tissue box feel free to glean

that I am more concerned with cash than flash —

they are Economy; rough as a rash.

…….

The poem goes on for eight more stanzas, in which she waxes philosophical about the importance of beds. I don’t think they’re as good as these first scene-setting five, so I won’t quote them here. What I would like to know from you, friends and readers, is YOUR opinion of the two poems I’ve quoted. Here’s a little more info on the poet: Claire Pollard, from the UK, born 1978 (biologically speaking, she’s young enough to be my daughter).These poems are from her second book, _Bedtime_, on Bloodaxe Books. (Aren’t they the same publishers who did the Prynne collection? Can you imagine a poet further from Ms. Pollard?) Book cover: famous picture of Marilyn Monroe clutching a pillow. Back cover, author photo of Pollard lying back on a pillow. What do you think, people? Terrible? Interesting? Absolutely unbearably embarrassing? Stupid? Masterful? Let me know and I’ll post your opinions.

I will end with one of my most vaginally visceral poems (from Are Not Our Lowing Heifers Sleeker than Night-Swollen Mushrooms?):

Fleshscape

To make a cape

of flesh, take

the labia minora

between the thumb

and forefinger, s-t-r-e-t-c-h

downwards and back

over the buttocks, then

upward along the ribcage,

curling them over

shoulders. Using palms,

rub the end flaps

onto the pectorals.

They will stick to the body

surface warmly, smelling

of minerals and cream,

their rosy hue ideal

for summer evenings.

To make a column

of flesh, pinch

the labia majora

between the eyelids,

s-t-r-e-t-c-h upwards

to the lilting sky

over rosy hillocks

and further

as an entertainment

for the pantheon.

Using balms, rub

the end flaps

onto the goddesses.

They will stick

to the body surface

warmly, in drapes

and folds, smelling

of conflict, their salmon

hue painting the firmament

they wave around in.

Lose the cares

of the flesh. Abstract

the fluid from the eyes.

Rub well into icons,

perfuming those milky

ludic globes. Spread

it as a carpet for

the lovelorn – their

digitalis. Conflict

is the balm of reason –

abstract, gratuitous,

baroque – as this.

Sunset comes with

multiple warnings,

filling the redolent

body with salmon.

And this labor.

The name of the beloved

may suddenly appear

as welts on that

forcibly externalized

internal skin, say “Mary”

or “Harry” or “Larry,”

a lighter whitish-red,

almost pussy ; the discourse

suddenly twangs.

The candle steps out

from behind the eyes,

reveals itself to be

a candle. This is what I mean

by “self as destroyer.”

“Could you just

scoot over a little

bit I don’t have

enough room”

“I have a mean streak

of musicality.”

To make a jailbreak

of flesh, clasp

the larva till it hardens

and tributaries crackle

up. If you are still

confined by the form,

consider the pleasure

of the otters. Your

pheonix will transmogrify

as other sorts of plumage

that may well singe

in sun, waves of heat

rising to begin

disintegration (a kind

of unfolding).

If you are still confused

by the form, invoke

its creator, its secret

prey. Jolly with

composition, she

has stretched

her lower lip up

over her head, and

the lyres (whipped

by a freak wind)’re all

abloom with

this (red light. dis-

tract) caco-

phany.