Jendi Reiter sent me a link to last month’s Disquieting Muses Quarterly, and pointed out these two poems by Chella Courington, who teaches writing in the city of my birth. Jendi knows my taste, and though these are indeed disquieting, they are very fine.
To My Father’s Right
stands the body. Dad is left-handed. When he stretches his hand, the
body jumps. I used to stay in the body. We would ask Why can’t I have
the drumstick? Why? Why? Then the questions stopped. We were nine and
eating peach ice cream. Condensed milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla, fresh
Clanton peaches. Butt numb from sitting on the churn as Daddy cranked,
fingers handle-thick. No seconds little fatty. We reached for the ladle.
The next thing I saw was the body on the floor. Its cheek red and dry.
The Body in Ninth Grade
Diet tricks—red and yellow missiles the body steals and carries to
school. The body blasts off before algebra and Mrs. Burgoyne, braced in
support hose. Glaring at thighs, she writes the body up for a dress code
violation. Three to four, the clock hand circles in the cafeteria. The
body does time. Afterwards, an offensive guard bangs it blue under the
gym bleachers. The short skirt bunches about the body’s waist.
Extremely disquieting, and hard to make sense out of also. Even worse than that one from a while back about someone clamping their hand over partner’s mouth during sex [Look, I can keep quiet and hold my breath just fine without anyone's help...] No, really, a parent who calls a kid names (“fatty”) should not even be sharing a planet with kids.
Is the author talking about experiences so horrid they made her have an out-of-the-body sensation? If that’s not the answer, what is? And if there’s no answer what’s the point? Stretching the reader’s mind is one thing, but dragging it through a heap of creepiness is another. It’s…surreal, like all those rock lyrics that constantly seem to be about to make sense but never do, until you start to think maybe you *don’t” want to find out after all.
I’m not sure I want to link to your source to find out. Your last two poetic finds were nice, but this makes my brain want to crawl down my spinal cord and hide behind my liver. I guess poems should come with trigger warnings also. Even–or especially–if they are hard to make sense out of, as if the parts don’t quite cohere.
That author needs to get help.
I guess poetry is the most subjective of all the arts when it comes to one’s taste, or something. I know it’s your blog and you can put up what you want but I hope that soon you will take us back to better things like the gold light and the workspaces that are required to have a view of a tree.
Sorry, Ang. I’ve always had eclectic tastes: the three poets whose work I’ve memorized most are Auden, Sexton, and Jeffers.
Glad you liked last week’s. The TSP will be back in a few weeks time.