"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.