I’m serializing my book-length poem. See yesterday’s post for details.
This thing called a fetish embodies
what can never be touched.
Its odd contours–all lump & twist
& rag-end–are best kept out of view.
To see it exposed, one must assume
the burden of its origins, one must
remake oneself. It lives
in a buried season, carboniferous.
It is the solid shadow
we abandoned in the womb.
To be continued.
Beginnings. In lieu of a prose introduction. The longest single section of the poem.
This thing called a fetish. No Freudianism, please! In anthropological circles, the term “fetish” has acquired a distinctly un-p.c. aura; terms like “icon,” or the more general “power object,” are generally preferred. What I had in mind was something halfway between a Malian cult object and the personal mi’le of a Zuni priest or medicine society member. In either case, a distinctly aniconic ideal holds sway.
For additional commentary, here and throughout, I think I’ll use the comments (appropriately enough).