Laura in Porto Palma - Tunaria, Summer, 2001.
Ways
of Seeing
The following essay was provoked by a poem by David
Rigsbee which I shall reproduce here immediately. The poem is taken from his
last collection of poems This Much I can Tell You published by Black
Lawrence Press, 2017. The poem is called The Complaint.
The
old poets used to complain about their
significant
others. It was a kind of requirement.
They
were cruel or remote, or cruel and remote.
Also
cold, of course, and disinterested.
The
categories are unacceptable, now that
centuries
of repetition and variation have left
devoid
of descriptive force. Not only that,
but
the setup, from an analytical standpoint,
is
quite unsatisfactory: objectification, the gaze
and
all that. We worked hard to hone
these
skills into useful shape, instruments
to
look beyond the pretenses and conventions.
They
reduce sentiments to what they really are
and
so uncover the secret springs and motives
where
once there seemed to be a simple, universal cry
that
said, I don’t think X loves me, and I am
in
pain! To which already we could go
in
a hundred directions, each tailor- made
to
register the unique soul that’s going to die.
Questions
rise like curling steam, that ask
why
did he not escape the common fate, why
did
his singularity not move his love to pity?
Why,
once the collapse had begun, did it seem
to
be unstoppable, joined to the arrow of time,
like
necessity, which knows no angel mighty
enough
to come down on the side of the poets,
those
complaining creatures, who rather
look
around, and seeing nothing, begin
in
their tears their uniform lament. Because it was
nothing
itself: no lover, no message, no pity,
a
position endorsed by God himself for the next
to
order up the light, those monomaniacs dying
to
illuminate a vastness into which they
and
their loves were destined. God could have said,
its
not so good, but He didn’t: He said quite
the
opposite. Who are the young poets to jump in
and
complain again? The point is, a world spun
out
of that nothing, and here we are lined up,
goodness
on one side, grievances on the other.
I guess I am one of those ‘young’ poets to jump in and
complain again, as this is a complaint which really resonated with me. So,
before I do, let me give you my response to David’s poem above.
He
Answers a Complaint
Objectification
is good, and a necessary ‘Evil.’
Always!
Think back to that afternoon in November,
Ten
years ago now, one of the coldest on record
When
nature and human events, in Shakespearean
Accord,
seemed to align - with the drop in temperature
The
nation lost its sovereignty, and while delegates
From
the IMF came She appeared before you
On
the street, divinely proportioned, Vitruvian
In
all manner. But you thought of the phrase by
Lucretius
– voluptatem praesagit muta cupido.
While
she walked upon Nassau Street before you,
Snow
all around, and you repeated the words like an
Incantation,
following her limbs as if led by a divinity,
So
that the very air warmed, and your pockets were refilled.
I should like to turn now
to Dante, going back over seven hundred years – indeed Italy prepares for their
national poet’s 700th anniversary of his death next year, 2021. Here
he is in Vita nuova when the poet describes his first encounter with
Beatrice.
From
the New Life
After
Dante
When
to my eyes appeared for the first time,
The
glorious woman in my mind,
She
who was called by many Beatrice,
Whom
I did not know what to call
And
who’d been in this world for some years,
As
at the time when I first saw her,
The
stars had been spread above me in the orient
During
the twelfth century and who,
Because
of her years, she being twice mine,
Had
been kept from my sight till then.
She
appeared dressed in a noble colour,
Humble
and honest, blood red, fashionable
In
the way of young people at the time.
At
this point I can honestly say
That
my life force, that which resides
In
the most secret chamber of the heart,
Started
to tremble, with such a force,
And
my blood started to pump so violently
And
the following words were uttered;
Ecce
deus fortior me qui veniens
Dominabiton
michi.
Here
is a god much stronger than I
And
which has come to rule over me.
Indeed, while rereading
both these poems I am immediately reminded of the Muslim tradition of the burka
a traditional style of dress which completely covers the woman’s body from
head to toe, so powerful do they feel the possible impact of the vision of a
woman on their menfolk that they would forbid their women to show themselves in
public. In the west we have long protested such traditions, but in light of the
fact of the poems above there is a poetic correspondence which is undeniable
between the wearing of the burka and the impact of the vision of a woman
on the soul of a man. Of course, the tradition in both the east and the west,
as Simone de Beauvoir was to outline so memorably in Le Deuxieme Sexe,
is that woman has for so long being perceived as the origin of evil. In the
first part of her monumental work, she traces the origin in myths of perceived
evil and womanhood. Figures such as Helen of Troy, for example.
Helen
of Troy *
Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?
Are these the lips that spoke to me uttering her
words?
Are these the eyes through which she has seen the
world?
Is this the woman that has given birth to a girl?
Is this the companion who took you in?
Are these the legs which have traversed whole
continents?
Are these the arms that have held so many lovers?
Is this the mind that has outwitted those others?
Are these the breasts which have given comfort?
Are these the hands which have cooled your brow?
Are these the feet that have marched to war?
Is this the back that has lain on countless beds?
Are these the thighs that have raised so many
feathers?
Is this the sex that destroyed a world?
I started this short
essay with a poem about a complaint evoking the male gaze etc. But, I conclude,
equally, that it works both ways. Goodness is very rarely all on one side, nor
are the complaints. We would appear to be, rather, all male and female, caught
at the crossroads. One thing is sure, when it comes to the body it is always,
also, a question about the soul.
Peter O’Neill
15/03/20
* Helen of Troy was first published in Chaos magazine, Fly on the Wall Poetry, 2019.
