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.
Otohime 