"Vice" by Ai

After reading the "Cruelty" section of Vice, I immediately looked up pictures of Tucson, Arizona. I am judging the book by its cover. I am judging the author by her photograph and the modest biography on the dust jacket of the book. Ai is part African America, Asian American, and Native American. In other words, very multi-cultural and that allows a lot of exploration for a writer, if you ask me. Writers like to find something that they belong to, be it a religion, a lifestyle, a place, nature, or a passion/hobby/job (e.g. the carpenter poet, the waitress poet). When reading the persona poems in "Cruelty", I felt so far away from the author. I imagined the narrator being anything but African American, Asian American, or Native American. Call me judgmental or stereotypical, but I imagined southern, white simpleton farmers, men and women dressed in desperation.

I really loved this section and it was my favorite of the whole book. I had such a hard time connecting these poems to the contemplative profile of Ai on the back of the book, hand on her chin, bun of hair high on her head, a large, ornate earring hanging heavy from her stretched ear lobe. The picture is dark at the bottom, though, like a lot of her poems. How else was I supposed to connect her to this poetry? Should I even concern myself with this task? Am I doing an injustice? But I eventually thought of place. These poems, I believe, can take place in a dark solitude that can be found in the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona.

The places in her poems are dark and dry. The immediate image in my head, when I picture the "essence" of her poetry, is dark. It is outside and it is night. The moon is not so bright. The brightest thing may be a yellow speck of a porch light from the shack of a farm house in the distance. Noise comes from what the slow wind moves. And perhaps from some random animals in the night. But there is also a shrill scream. That of a woman. Or the growl of an angry man. There are cold, rusty things in sheds and grass, yellow and dried, from the sun that day. That's what I picture. Something dark is happening within the house. Inside, at the bottom of the poem.

These poems also seem to possess an archaic or obsolete time-frame in them. I can't tell if it's the setting that provokes this or if it is the actual language that takes me back to older times. Words like midwife, white lace slip, oxhide boots give the time away. "Child Beater" was a very uncomfortable poem to read. Not just because of the topic, but because of the vulnerability portrayed in the poem. I get extremely uncomfortable when I must witness someone being vulnerable. I hate when people bend down to tie their shoes, only their backs to defend whatever may come upon them. I hate being behind people long enough to know that I'm behind them and that they are not aware that what they can't see, I can see. I hate it. I hate it. But at the same time, what I hate (hate is not the right word, because it's more discomfort than hatred), I am also fascinated with. I am drawn to being uncomfortable, so I enjoyed this poem while at the same time, I was horrified. Here's a section of "Child Beater" that really got to me.

Her body, somehow fat, though I feed her only once a day,
reminds me of my own just after she was born.
It's been seven years, but I still can't forget how I felt.
How heavy it feels to look at her.

I lay the belt on a chair
and get her dinner bowl.
I hit the spoon against it, set it down
and watch her crawl to it,
pausing after each forward thrust of her legs
and when she takes her first bite,
I grab the belt and beat her across the back
until her tears, beads of salt-filled glass, falling,
shatter on the floor.

*

The physical descriptions of the daughter (being fat, the forward thrust of her legs) are very subtle, yet there seems to be so much vulnerability there. And to be in the psyche of the the narrator is something else, as well. There seems to be a lot of perverse anger here. This was a very effective poem.

This section of poems also seems to possess no more than two characters. There is always a strange coupling in these poems, one that is not healthy or content. This makes for a disturbing (but good) poem. A lot of these poems take place in silence, as well. The poem I just shared is between mother and daughter, but told in the silence of the narrator's internal voice. There isn't any outward dialogue between the characters. There aren't any active scenes, but instead memories and recollections. "The Tenant Farmer" concerns the farmer himself and his woman. There is an uncomfortable silence between them as his mind rattles with internal dialogue, especially at the end of the poem.

Although these poems are very dark and disturbing, I have taken to them and they have taken to me. This explains, I think, the title poem "Cruelty", where there is a desire for something dangerous, with sharp teeth. Something that bites beack. These poems have very thin layers of skin. And lots of blood.

Lucille Clifton's "Good Woman"

In Lucille Clifton's poems, every word counts. Her poems are mere inkblots on the page, but how they move! All of these poems are on their knees, singing in their own distinct voices. Clifton takes on several voices and personae, all of which are believable and compassionate. I especially love the poems in which she takes on the voice of a male.

This may seem strange, but since I was a child, I have connected african american/black women with masculinity. Here are a few literary/pop-cultural examples: The Color Purple, "Corrina, Corrina", Their Eyes Were Watching God, Jazz...

I'm quite certain that this masculinity has a lot to do with the fact that the characters in these books/films are strong and determined. They have pushed men aside in one form or another, be it through quasi-lesbianism or plain 'ole rejection. Since her poems are quite short, I'll share some that I particularly loved. Of them all, I think this one may be my favorite:

joseph

something about this boy
has spelled my tongue
so even when my fingers tremble
on mary
my mouth cries only
jesus jesus jesus

*

In just six short lines, Clifton arouses all the senses but smell (unless you really envelop yourself into the poem and smell his spicy breath or her salty skin). But all those senses are there, nonetheless. And the movement is there, as well. The spelling of the tongue is a very interesting movement, I think. What a great phrase! It definitely works. But the trembling fingers and the movement of his mouth, I'm sure...is all very sacred. Like I said, these poems are on their knees. I love that. There is lot of spirituality in these poems.

Clifton also takes on a voice that is even higher than God in her poem "god's mood". In this poem, God is a fickle bastard, tired of his creation, kind of resembling Old Testament God. An excerpt:

he is tired of years that keep turning into age
and flesh that keeps widening.
he is tired of waiting for his teeth to
bite him and walk away.

he is tired of bone,
it breaks.
he is tired of eve's fancy
and adam's whining ways.

*

I especially love that final stanza. In my imagination, when I picture Adam & Eve, they are always portrait-still. Holding fruit. Naked or a little covered. There's a serpent. You know, the typical portraiture in which they are conveyed. They're a stagnant image. But that final stanza, for me, brings movement into their limbs. In my imagination, Eve is holding a branch, or pushing something aside to look at something beyond obstruction. She is wandering. She takes a step. Adam, he sits on a tree stump, his chin on his fist. His face is sour and twisted, he runs his hands through his touseled hair--a typical quirk when he gets pissy.

What a great poem.

What a great poem, I say. But I can't help but also ask, "Who is the narrator?" And knowing who the writer is--a woman, a black woman--I shift positions in my seat and smile a little. It is comforting, for a reason I can't really explain, to know it's Clifton.

Clifton writes about Kali, a goddess who stands on Shiva! She is fierce, black, and unstoppable. In Clifton's poem "she insists on me", the narrator (Clifton) fears being consumed by Kali or being entered by Kali. Here is the poem, since it isn't long.

she insists on me

i offer my
little sister up. no,
she says, no i want
you fat poet with
dead teeth. she insists
on me. my daughters
promise things, they
pretend to be me but
nothing fools her
nothing moves her and
i end up pleading
woman woman i am trying
to make a living here,
woman woman you are not
welcome in these bones,
woman woman please but she
walks past words and
insists on me.

*

This seems to be a twist on the idea of making a deal with the devil. The deal isn't made here, for there seems to be a surrendering. There is a moving at the end of the poem. A movement past the words, and how appropriate! Content and form, right there, moving past the words. She can easily be talking about poetry, right? Ars poetica? An unstoppable force is at work here and I like that there isn't exactly a resolution, but there is an idea as to where it may go.

I've read "homage to my hips" several times. It is one of her more well-known poems. When I was a teaching assistant as an undergrad, I used this poem as an example of a voice poem and I read it out-loud to the class in what I thought was an appropriate voice. Like hips, this poem has round qualities. These round qualities are in the sounds, particularly the vowels. And with the vowels, which are elongated and change frequency, comes attitude. Attitude also resonates when we finally encounter a hard consonant like in the phrase "petty places". You can almost spit at your enemies when saying it.

Gotta love it.

Circe & the Dead Man

Circe makes me think of sirens. "Circe" by Diann Blakely seems to bring in the siren myth, or so I think. Although, it is not song that draws the sailors to her, but familiarity, domesticity, and limitations. This connects very well, though, with the myth of Circe, a woman who turned men to swine. The men pursued something they desired (food) which she had tained, and therefore the men met their demise, becoming swine. the men in this poem adhere to all of Circe's rules for their own domestic comfort.

Poems about Circe al seem to be about men's desires. This line captures her persona ver well:

...If I wanted only to hold you

I would hold you prisoner.

*

Very nice.

I found Marvin Bell's "The Book of the Dead Man" very interesting. It was fascinating that Bell, instead of doing a persona poem of one figure, e uses one figure (the dead man) as a persona or comparison to another figure (Medusa). I looked onlineat other sections of this poem and realized that the dead man is very experimetal and curious with his own body. He is always testing his limbs and attempting to learn about himself. He seems isolated and suspended in time, like Medusa, or Medusa's stone. Here is an excerpt from section 3 entitled "About the Beginnings of the Dead Man".

He bends a knee that doesn't wish to bend, he raises an arm that
aruges with a soulder, e turns his head by throwing it
wildly to the side.
He envies the lobster the protective sleeves of its limbs.
He believes the jellyfish has it easy, floating, letting everything pass
through it.
He would like to be a starfish, admired for its shape long after.

*

Like Medusa, the Dead Man seems mythical and suspended in isolation. Not belonging or desirable.

Reading all these persona poems made me want to write a persona poem about the Garden of Eden. My boyfriend recently introduced me to this Josh Ritter song entitled "The Temptation of Adam". The revisioning that takes place in this ballad is very interesting. Here are the lyrics.

If this was the Cold War we could keep each other warm
I said on the first occasion that I met Marie
We were crawling through the hatch that was the missile silo door
And I don't think that she really thought that much of me

I never had to learn to love her like I learned to love the Bomb
She just came along and started to ignore me
But as we waited for the Big OneI started singing her my songs
And I think she started feeling something for me

We passed the time with crosswords that she thought to bring inside
What five letters spell "apocalypse" she asked me
I won her over saying "W.W.I.I.I."
She smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me

Oh Marie it was so easy to fall in love with you
It felt almost like a home of sorts or something
And you would keep the warhead missile silo good as new
And I'd watch you with my thumb above the button

Then one night you found me in my army issue cot
And you told me of your flash of inspiration
You said fusion was the broken heart that's lonely's only thought
And all night long you drove me wild with your equations

Oh Marie do you remember all the time we used to take
We'd make our love and then ransack the rations
I think about you leaving now and the avalanche cascades
And my eyes get washed away in chain reactions

Oh Marie if you would stay then we could stick pins in the map
Of all the places where you thought that love would be found
But I would only need one pin to show where my heart's at
In a top secret location three hundred feet under the ground

We could hold each other close and stay up every night
Looking up into the dark like it's the night sky
And pretend this giant missile is an old oak tree instead
And carve our name in hearts into the warhead

Oh Marie there's something tells me things just won't work out above
That our love would live a half-life on the surface
So at night while you are sleepingI hold you closer just because
As our time grows short I get a little nervous

I think about the Big One, W.W.I.I.I.
Would we ever really care the world had ended
You could hold me here forever like you're holding me
look at that great big red button and I'm tempted