Farther away — much farther,
high as a predator drone above the caution tape,
distant as a satellite from the chalk outline on the street,
safe from the suck of the swamp,
its cottonmouths & mosquitoes,
free from the burden of earth
& the deadly irredeemable stones,
beyond the sting of conscience
& the discomfort of moral ambiguity,
rapture me in the always-now of amnesia,
in the never-enough of consumption, rupture me,
oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god.
I was David, slayer of tens of thousands,
dancing half-naked before the Ark.
Power flowed through me: everyone saw
how the Lord gloried in his tool.
Abigail, Michal, Ahinoam — where were they?
Forgotten on their pillows of goats’ hair,
like the graven image that slept in my bed
on the night I staged my first
tactical retreat.
Don’t look at me like that! Remember,
Jonathon was dead, whose love had been
more wonderful than the love of any woman.
The Lord had taken my seed
for his own: my sons would be his sons.
But what does a virgin know about love?
I danced, I circled back on myself
like a serpent, honey-tongued.
I fucked Bathsheba & had her husband killed.
A flash of anger in your eyes — good.
I hold nothing back; neither should you.
More than anything else,
El Shaddai loves openness.
Ah, but Absalom, beautiful in outrage,
broken at the bottom of a pit!
What kind of arch is supported
by a single pillar?
You have heard these stories a hundred times,
I know. They are all I have left.
I keep hoping somehow to set you aflame, poor girl,
forced to cuddle with this soft cold worm
your King.
__________
Abishag – see I Kings 1:1-4
dancing before the ark – II Samuel 6:12-16
the graven image that slept in my bed – I Samuel 19:11-17
more wonderful than the love of any woman – II Samuel 1:25-26
the Lord had taken my seed – II Samuel 7:12-16
Bathsheba – II Samuel 11
a single pillar – II Samuel 18:17-18
For another take on the real David behind the layers of tradition, see Baruch Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer, Traitor, King (Eerdmans, 2001)
Look, the night doesn’t fall like a curtain
or rise from any ground. In fact,
it doesn’t move at all.
It’s still there, even in the heat of noon.
Ay, Carnival.
Fields of dog grass.
We pass through that black purse
like stones through a gizzard,
grinding against each other, a currency
no sooner earned than spent.
Our features fade, rubbed smooth.
Veins appear just under the skin.
Strands of silver.
Ay Carnival,
bald as a nickname.
Now more than ever, I am nothing you’d
care to save. But night still rattles
with the dreams of poor Indians,
in their hats & shawls like broody hens
unwilling to abandon the egg
that will never hatch.
Big overblown Carnival.
__________
Lines in italics are taken from Quechua folksongs collected by Jesíºs Lara and translated by Maria A. Proser and James Scully (Quechua Peoples Poetry, Curbstone Press, 1976).
For background on Potosí, see here.
Imagine having to go on with no way to touch.
Giving birth to the child of who knows which
stoned soldier, & never knowing the silky
feel of his skin, whether to caress
or to shove away, away.
I let him nurse to ease the swelling in my breasts.
I licked him like a cat — it was all the salt I could get.
Were they not terrible, those severed hands,
when they stood back up at last
& began to point?
Click on the photo for a larger image
After mother remarried, her new husband
shot the horse that had returned
with an empty saddle.
It hadn’t let anyone but me ride it since.
You couldn’t slam a door or fire a gun,
it would kick down the stalls.
We’d put it outside during thunderstorms.
I’d hear a frantic drumroll of hooves
circling the pasture,
& something heavy — the Sunday roast — scraping
across a table. I mean, the way it sounds
from underneath,
crouching among the chairs, hungry,
keeping a wary eye on those tooled
leather boots.
As a form of protest, I will stop writing in my own voice.
As a gesture toward reconciliation, I will begin writing in the voices of unnamed others.
The eyes are cowries; they smile in the shape of a frown.
I saw myself in the lorry’s rearview mirror. I looked farther away than I was, half swallowed in the dust storm.
Hold me, I said to the mask. Keep us together.
Here’s an old poem based on some emails from a woman I “met” about five years back through an online dating service, a very ambitious young Sharon Olds disciple. The “relationship” fizzled after about a month when it became obvious to her that I was more interested in talking about poetry than hopping a bus to her city for a weekend of heavy calisthenics. But she liked the poem, and seemed pleased that I chose to cast it in her voice, so I don’t think I do her any disrespect in reprinting it.
THE FUTURE POET LAUREATE WRITES IN HER JOURNAL
I’ve been so swamped, I took
a mental health day, called in sick.
My poems are dwindling like unused
extra fingers. But the signs
weren’t good: first the car
that wouldn’t start, then no heat
in the apartment. And in between
the therapist saying you have to learn
to let go. Hell, I barely made it
to the appointment. How can I relax
when my mechanic charges twice
as much as my therapist? I ask
the radiator repairman, can’t you fix it
so it doesn’t knock?
I need things to be simpler than they are.
Today my car still isn’t running
& I work eleven hours, 9:00 to 8:00.
After work I’ll rent an old movie
& fall asleep on the couch,
the tattered cushions will take me
as I am, will let me down gently
into their kingdom of spare parts.
I’ll weight my pockets with ballast of coins
& combs, let the missing socks stay missing,
pay no mind to the pens all sticky with ink.
This is the last day to send in links for the first-ever Festival of the Trees, which will appear here sometime tomorrow morning, inshallah. (Send links to me — bontasaurus at yahoo dot com — with “festival of the trees” in the subject line.)
Let me reiterate that for this first edition, I am accepting pieces from your archives, as far back as you care to go. I want to suggest that writing about trees has deep roots in the blog world; it’s not some new fad just invented for this blog carnival. But recent posts are also, of course, most welcome.
I’ve already received a respectable number of contributions, which means that I won’t be doing much hunting for stuff on my own. So if you’d like to make sure your own blog — or your favorite blog read — is included, you’ll have to send me links. It’s O.K. to send multiple links and let me choose (though future hosts of the festival may set different rules).
Also, I’ve decided that I’ll follow a quote format, with somewhat lengthier selections than is the norm for blog carnivals. (No, this will not be a post for the ADD-impaired!) The implication for artists and photographers is that I may reproduce your images to illustrate the post — with due credit and a link back to the original, of course.
*
That’s it for a post today. If you don’t think you can get through this last day of the work week and the month without a Via Negativa fix, here’s something from the archives that you probably don’t remember (I didn’t): Looking ourselves over. It’s actually two posts in one, but the heart of it is a comparison between anthropologist Keith Basso’s descriptions of the Western Apache and my own, anecdotal impressions of rural white folks in Central Pennsylvania. A little on the wordy side, but you’ns might like it.
I am taking a few days off to go camping and to visit some blogger friends in Montreal. There will be no updates to Via Negativa or the Smorgasblog until at least next Tuesday. See you later, and thanks for reading.
I won’t have time to write anything new today, but here’s a recycled post. It originally appeared in Via Negativa on September 6, 2004. PARENTAL ADVISORY: Contains caustic cynicism and naughty words. Seal all entrances with duct tape and plastic before proceeding.
1. You create your own reality. Re-write history to eliminate your rivals and give yourself all the starring roles.
2. If not you, someone else then. If not now, whenever. It’ll get done. If it doesn’t, well, it probably didn’t matter all that much in the first place.
3. Live in the past. That way, you’ll never have to worry about being surprised.
4. If at first you don’t succeed, hit the government up for more subsidies.
5. It’s not who wins or loses, it’s whether we all get to taunt the losers.
6. Power corrupts. But if nothing ever corrupted, we’d be up to our ears in shit and corpses.
7. Cleanliness is next to chemical allergies, birth defects and senility.
8. Eat the poor. They’re 90% fat-free!
9. It is better never to have loved at all than to have loved and lost your dignity. So suck it up, you big baby. Repression works.
10. Real men don’t ask for help. If things get bad, you can always talk to Jesus.
11. If you meet the Buddha, tell him to give me a call. He still owes me $25 bucks.
12. It’s not the goal, it’s the journey. Especially when you’re lost.
13. You can sleep when you’re dead. Be sure your grieving loved ones spend at least $3000 for a really comfortable casket.
14. A friend in need is fine, but probably isn’t the best person to go out drinking with.
15. If you put all your eggs in one basket, you can save lots of money on heat lamps.
16. A stitch in time is bad for the economy. Throw it out, already!
17. I’m O.K., you’re O.K. It’s those other people who are fucking things up.
18. First thing we do, let’s kill all the murderers.
19. Misery loves company. Specifically, the Frito-Lay Company, makers of Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos, Tostitos, Ruffles and Lay’s brand snack chips. Frito-LayTM. Food for the fun of it!TM
20. Before doing X, always ask yourself, “What would happen if everyone did X?” If the answer is, “Cataclysmic war and social chaos, leading to the rapid extinction of most higher life forms,” then it’s probably a pretty good way to turn a profit.
21. Some people see things as they are and ask, “Why?” Some people dream of things that never were and ask, “Why not?” If you know either of these kinds of people, please call the Department of Homeland Security’s toll-free hotline.
22. When the going gets tough, remind yourself that countless generations before you have faced these very same problems. And now they’re all dead.
