More Poetry

I've been feeling pretty inspired towards poetry lately. It's actually a great format for me, particularly if I wanted to do visual books because of the brevity allowed. I read Natasha Trethewey's entire Pulitzer Prize winning book, Native Guard tonight on the train to Chicago and there were parts of it that really struck me.

What is Evidence

Not the fleeting bruises she'd cover
with makeup, a dark patch as if imprint
of a scope she'd pressed her eye too close to,
looking for a way out , nor the quiver
in the voice she'd steady, leaning
into a pot of bones on the stove, Not
the teeth she wore in place of her own, or
the official document-- its seal
and smeared signature-- fading already,
the edges wearing. Not the tiny marker
with its dates, her name, abstract as history.
Only the landscape of her body--splintered
clavicle, pierced temporal-- her thin bones
settling a bit each day, the way all things do.

--Natasha Trethewey

I've been very interested in poets and artists who deal with race and gender. Another I've been struck by is Kara Walker. (click on it to read it)


I love this imagery of these girls leaving a man tied, a man changed by the body, the body he claimed to hate.

So here's something I've written. I think Jordan, my friend who deals with male mythology and interaction in his paintings, would like this.

Snakes

The men shake
the snakes that float
like gauze on their faces. Rough

holey gauze is sewn
into their skin so they are
careful with them, careful to let

them follow wherever they go,
to not slam them in doors or thrust
them in fires. These nerveless filmy

snakes won’t feel the sudden
squash of door and jamb as they swing
together, won’t sweat as white flames
blossom into their tails. But the bodies
follow, they will shrill when they try to move, they
will fever as flames flower them over—Hard

though it is to know the snakes, to care
for the snakes as one would care for anything
stitched to their face, it is harder still

to leave the chin bare, to feel a smooth cheek,
to acknowledge the delicately drawn jaw
line the pencil
left no hard edges no rough &

ragged lines, it’s all dove gray and white, pristine
and pretty. Don’t worry—they’ve heard don’t worry about that.
But they do and the snakes on the face, the ones that don’t feel
a thing give mettle to the snakes in the trousers, the robust ones,
the ones (tw)itching with life.

--Sophie Loubere, 2008