Linda McCarriston          

***************

12. McCarriston // strong poets don't write poems    Rachel

the poems write themselves.  ok, that was just to "tease" you into reading my entry.     

Linda McCarriston

Now Hand is the hard bottom of the girl's
Now Hand is full of the full new breast
Now Hand, square hand
cruel as a spade
splits the green girl wood
of her body
No one can take this from him now
ever
though she is for years a mother
and worn
and he is too old to force any again
his cap hangs on a peg by the door
plaid wool of an elderly working man's
park bench decline
"I got there before the boys did"
he knows
hearing back to her pleading
            back to her sobbing
to his own voiceover
like his bodyover hers
laughter
mocking
the Elemental Voice of the Cock,
unhearted
in its own quarter
"A man is King in his own castle"
he can still say
having got what he wanted
in a lifetime of used ones
secondhand
one girls he could spill
like a shot of Whiskey
the Whore
only he
could call daughter.

I feel somewhat stupid writing this, but listening to all these poems was an incredibly powerful experience.  I feel stupid saying this because I'm sure all of you felt the same way, and i don't feel i've captured it adequately when I say that it was "powerful."  It was so much more than just powerful.  It was eye opening and illuminating and darkening and scary and sad and full of hope, hat these poets found a way to deal with these feelings.  I can't say that one poem spoke to me more than any other, because they were all speaking to me.  out loud.  It seems easier when I hear the poems spoken well, esp. from the poets themselves, to connect with the words and images.  Seeing a poem on paper makes it easy to objectify the words, to put them separate from yourself, from experience, from the actual; to let them wash over the surface of you.  but when poets read their poems well, or when anyone reads a poem well, you can't ignore it.  You can't stop the words from seeping into you and caressing or molesting you.  it is a bodily experience.  We can get this bodily, intense, deep experience from reading poetry silently.  I have experienced it.  But when reading poems on paper we can choose which ones to let in, we can more easily put up our guard than with poems we experience audibly.  I could not choose to let one poem in, to experience it more fully than the others.  

Now Hand is the hard bottom of the girl's  
Now Hand is full of the full new breast
the repetition of the phrase "now hand" is like a beating, or an act repeated over and over, different yet the same in cruelty, in trying to forget.  When I think of girls and bottoms and breasts I think soft, new, gentle, young, innocent.  But this is not the image we get here.  The father's hard, criminal hand, rough from working, the girl's soft skin... we are frightened when we put these two images together.  It is the nightmare all woman have had - a collective fear of vulnerability, of what has happened.  for it did not just happen to this woman, but to all of us; not physically, but spiritually, mentally, emotionally
Now Hand, square hand
cruel as a spade
spade doesn't seem to fit - farming image, hoeing, preparing the ground to produce and be fertile, with this image of molestation.  And yet I see the spade breaking the ground, hard and sharp and indifferent.  does she feel like she's being prepared for something? do bear some sick fruit?
splits the green girl wood
of her body
like lucile cliffton's green girl in a used poet, does this green girl live inside Linda still?  is she still green, or burned now and ashen?  The father is confused, he's doing everything all wrong.  You use a spade to prepare soil, not to split wood.  Split wood will not grow, green wood isn't meant to be split, it won't burn well, it isn't ready for burning.  This phrase, green girl wood, is beautiful.  it haunts me
No one can take this from him now
ever
she spoke the word ever so strongly.  this never ends she is saying, this never never ends.  We usually hear this word in fairy tales; "happily ever after", but how differently is speaks to us here.  I'm not sure if it's a tension, but it stands out sharp and strong and forboding, like a wall.  And I want to knock it down, to take it out of the poem and have hope that she can leave this behind, or take it back from him.  but she can't .  But no one can take this, poetry, away from her.
though she is for years a mother
and worn
and he is too old to force any again
images of aging don't seem to fit in this poem about a young girl being molested by her father, it is as if she relives it every moment, her past is a part of her, as all of ours is.  
his cap hangs on a peg by the door
plaid wool of an elderly working man's
park bench decline
it seems odd to throw in this pitty-the-dad bit here.  He's old, grey, working still, a park bench decline.  It seems so docile, so wrong.  I want him to be cruel and sharp even is aging, but he's not.  And here's another tension, this word elderly, and parkbench, a father just like any of ours, and yet he's not.  we don't want him to be , we want to hold him off in the violent first images that we have already had to accept.
"I got there before the boys did"
he knows
hearing back to her pleading
            back to her sobbing
to his own voiceover
like his bodyover hers
laughter
mocking
the Elemental Voice of the Cock,
unhearted
in its own quarter
"A man is King in his own castle"
he can still say
having got what he wanted
in a lifetime of used ones
secondhand
this word, secondhand, stands out for me.  It fits with used, but I think of a second hand store, and I wonder what she means by this.  did someone own her first, it seems like he owned her first, made her secondhand to the world, and to herself.  but my first thought was that she meant everything her father touched was second hand TO HIM.  but this doesn't make sense really.  the idea that everything he touches becomes second hand fits with the dirty image of him, and the next lines, spilling whisky, whore, solidify our image of her father, but he is not ours.  and we don't associate him with the idea of father.  because father is god, father is our dad, and this, this is not Father.  This is killer, rapist, abuser; this is wrong, dirty,; this is other.
one girls he could spill
like a shot of Whiskey
the Whore
only he
could call daughter.

***************

12. McCarriston // the (in)justice system    Mike

To Judge Faylan,

Dead Long Enough

A Summons

 

Your Honor,

when my mother stood before you

with her routine domestic plea

after weeks of waiting

for speech to return to her body

With her homemade forties hairdo,

her face purple still under pancake

her jaw off, just a little

her holy of holies, healing

her breasts, wrung

her heart the bursting heart

of someone snagged among rocks

deep in a shark pool

No, not someone

but a woman there,

snagged with her babies,

by them

in one of hope's

pedestrian brutal turns

When, in the tones of parlours

overlooking the harbor,

you admonished "That,

for the sake of the family,

the wife must take the husband

back to her bed."

What you willed

not to see before you

was a woman risen

clean to the surface.

A woman who,

with one arm flailing,

held up with the other

her actual burdens of flesh.

When you clapped to her leg

the chain of justice

you ferried us back down

to the Law,

the black ice eye,

the mawl,

the macko that circles

the kitchen table nightly.

What did you make

of the words she told you?

Not to have heard her,

not to have seen her there?

Almost forgivable ignorance,

you were not the fist,

the boot, the blade

but the jaded corrective ear and eye

at the limits of her world.

Now, I will you

to see her as she was,

to ride your own words

back into light.

I call your spirit

home again,

divesting you of robe and bench

the fine white hand

and half-lit Irish eye.

Tonight, put on a body

in the trailer

down the road,

where your father,

when he can't get it up,

makes love to your mother

with a rifle.

Let your name be

Eva Mary,

Let your hour of birth

be dawn

Let your life be

long and common

and your flesh endure.

--Linda McCarriston

I really enjoyed Steph's reading of this poem, and her transcription. In general, I prefer a shorter line (it tends to bring out the word smthy better than a longline) and think there is enough power and pain in this poem that needs space to grow and move. I was moved by this poem (or maybe this poem chose me) in part because it stikes at a recurring phenonomin, why we continue to call it the justice system when it so often it only continues the rule of the rich and the continued subjection of the unbderclass, the poor, the minorities, especially women within those categories. This is a poem of one woman's pain, but it also is a poem for all the victims of our (in)justice system. We , the listeners/readers, are given a voice of the usually voiceless, a unique experience that connects to so many experiences, too many. We have truly been honored,and we are also charged . . . we have heard this story, how does it change us?

***************

12. McCarriston // Cursed Body    Adam

Cursed Body

Bill Moyers Interview with Linda McCarriston,

from "The Language of Life," Part Three: The Field of Time

 

To Judge Faylan,

dead long enough...

A Summons

Your Honor, when my mother stood before you

with her routine domestic plea

after weeks of waiting for speech to return to her body

with her homemade forties hairdo,

her face purple still under pancake

her jaw off just a little

her holy-of-holies healing

her breasts wrung

her heart the bursting heart of someone

snagged among rocks deep in a shark pool

No, not someone but a woman there,

snagged with her babies, by them

in one of hope's pedestrian brutal turns

When, in the tones of parlours overlooking the harbor,

you admonished that, for the sake of the family,

the wife must take the husband back to her bed.

What you willed not to see before you

was a woman risen clean to the surface.

A woman who, with one arm flailing,

held up with the other her actual burdens of flesh.

When you clapped to her leg

the chain of justice

you ferried us back down to

the law--

The black ice eye,

the maw,

the macko that circles the kitchen table nightly.

What did you make of the words she told you

not to have heard her,

not to have seen her there?

Almost forgivable ignorance,

you were not the fist, the boot or the blade

but the jaded corrective ear and eye

at the limits of her world.

Now I will you

to see her as she was,

to ride your own words back into light.

I call your spirit home again,

divest in you of robe and bench

the fine white hand and half-lit Irish eye.

Tonight put on a body

in the trailer down the road,

where your father,

when he can't get it up,

makes love to your mother with a rifle.

Let your name be Eva Mary,

let your hour of birth be dawn

let your life be long and common

and your flesh endure.

--Linda McCarriston

Thanks Stephanie for typing this out!!

My powers of interpretation feel weakened in the face of a woman author. Can I pretend to know what she was writing about. It doesn't matter, being an extreme believer in exegeses, i think the meaning emerges within me.

To me, she is writing to the very core of the authority that justifies, that defines a world where women are treated as unequals to men. He is the "jaded" eye, not the abuser, but the justifier of abuse the maker of RIGHT. He "wills" himself not to see the truth, by defining the truth on legal, intellectual, cultural terms. This willing force is cultural and intellectual, it is justified only through the mind, not the nature of humanity itself. To her the truth is the biological/natural reality of bodies "put on a body", in other words, remember that you are just as i am - an animal, a human. See my "actual burdens of flesh" the same burdens you have, because you have the same flesh. Note how law and justice are constrictive, whereas a body would be educational to the judge. It would bring him the deep empathy that she feels should be the seat of judgement. The golden rule if you will.

It is a beautiful expression of a member of a culture calling others to remember their deeper belonging - as humans. She is asking that we go deeper than law and custom and culture when judging each other - that we simply ask "what would i want in the same situation?" Is such understanding possible between the sexes? Within the "reality" of worldviews defining our culture today?

***************

12. McCarriston // Cursed Body    Stephanie

Cursed Body

Bill Moyers Interview with Linda McCarriston,

from "The Language of Life," Part Three: The Field of Time

 

To Judge Faylan,

dead long enough...

A Summons

Your Honor, when my mother stood before you

with her routine domestic plea

after weeks of waiting for speech to return to her body

with her homemade forties hairdo,

her face purple still under pancake

her jaw off just a little

her holy-of-holies healing

her breasts wrung

her heart the bursting heart of someone

snagged among rocks deep in a shark pool

No, not someone but a woman there,

snagged with her babies, by them

in one of hope's pedestrian brutal turns

When, in the tones of parlours overlooking the harbor,

you admonished that, for the sake of the family,

the wife must take the husband back to her bed.

What you willed not to see before you

was a woman risen clean to the surface.

A woman who, with one arm flailing,

held up with the other her actual burdens of flesh.

When you clapped to her leg

the chain of justice

you ferried us back down to

the law--

The black ice eye,

the ma,

the macko that circles the kitchen table nightly.

What did you make of the words she told you

not to have heard her,

not to have seen her there?

Almost forgivable ignorance,

you were not the fist, the boot or the blade

but the jaded corrective ear and eye

at the limits of her world.

Now I will you

to see her as she was,

to ride your own words back into light.

I call your spirit home again,

divest in you of robe and bench

the fine white hand and half-lit Irish eye.

Tonight put on a body

in the trailer down the road,

where your father,

when he can't get it up,

makes love to your mother with a rifle.

Let your name be Eva Mary,

let your hour of birth be dawn

let your life be long and common

and your flesh endure.

--Linda McCarriston

I found it very difficult to give a poem form, especially knowing it exists in the order the poet intended it to have somewhere out there. However, it was so helpful and rather a creative process to be able to hear the poet speak their work in their own voice and then take that and translate the open words onto the blank page (or screen).

Since we all know what this poem is about because Linda told us, I want to focus on a line that jumped out at me and probably wouldn't have if I hadn't heard it spoken aloud. The line is "Now I will you" because of the enriched power within that line. At first I thought she was saying, "Now will you?" as if taunting the judge to stick to his word even after seeing what he really sentenced them to after his judgment, after he sees her mother "as she was." McCarriston is not asking the judge to look at what's happened now but bringing him back to that crucial moment when her mother become a hero and risked her life to escape the wretched abusive life in which she was caged.

Another potent aspect about this line ("Now I will you") is the supreme bitterness, hurt and tiny sense of revenge (she is casting a curse on him, keep in mind) that lurk within these words. The depth these words took me to when Linda McCarriston read them outloud was simply startling--I wasn't sure whether I felt as the helpless judge who was simply trying to do his job, maintaining the tradition to praise good and dispraise evil and uphold the Catholic church or if I was the worn, defeated mother who saw myself in my hostile but persevering daughter who is shaking her fist at the stubborn old judge while a long-awaited smile creeps on my face.

Even the arrangement of the words is essential to this line. NOW brings the judge, who has been "dead long enough," to the present so that he can see what her mother was when she stood in front of him that meek, unfortunate day. "I" comes before "you," forcing the judge to forget about himself for a moment and take on what the daughter is challenging him to--it's a personal battle or struggle that the daughter is making obvious how much personal stake was in his decision for her. WILL is rich with meaning--here it is a propellant verb moving him, forcing him, to accept this double dog dare. YOU is the inevitable, the one who forced the daughter, mother and family back with the "fist, the boot [and] the blade." And although YOU is almost a forgivable offense, the daughter doesn't deem YOU worthy enough to be saved from this awful curse of being forced into awareness where your father "makes love to your mother with a rifle."

***************

12. McCarriston // the power of a healing touch    Joanna

 

 

Healing the Mare
                by Linda McCarriston

Just days after the vet came
after the steroids
that took the fire
out of the festering sores
out of the flesh
that in the heat
took the stings too seriously
and swelled into great welts
wore thin and wept
calling more loudly out
to the green- headed flies
I bathe you
and see your coat returning
your deep force surfacing
in a new layer of hide
black wax alive against
weather and flies

But this morning,
misshapen still,
you look like an effigy
something rudely made
something made to be buffetted
or like an old comforter.
Are they both one
in the end?

So both a child
and a mother
with my sponge and my bucket
I come to annoint
to anneal the still weeping
to croon to you,
"Baby, poor baby"
for the sake of the song
to polish you up
for the sake of the touch
to a shine
As I soothe you
I surprise
wounds of my own
this long time
unmothered
as you stand,
scathed and scabbed,
with your head up
I swab
as you press
I lean into
my own
loving touch
for which no wound
is too ugly.
 

    This beautiful and gentle poem intruiged me for a number of reasons.   Just before reading this poem, McCarriston talks about her love of and admiration for animals, and how it makes sense to her to look to animals for an example of how we should live because people are so filled by or victimized by violence.  I think that is a beautiful way of looking at things- I believe that animals have a great deal to teach us.  I also really liked how nursing the mare back to health brought McCarriston to the wounds that festered still inside of her as well as the wounds she was soothing with her hands.
    I love the image this poem paints in my mind.  I can see the mare, alert and somewhat agitated, with her head up, and the speaker gently soothing the horse with her hands and her voice, as her thoughts turn to her own internal wounds from long ago.  It struck me that the image of healing is a very soothing one, whether I picture myself as the recipient of the healing or the healer.  The thought of tending to someone's wounds- whether human or animal, whether wounds of the body or the spirit- is very comforting.  I think that everyone has wounds of the spirit to some degree, depending on their life experiences.  There is always something within each of us that is hurt and vulnerable.  Through healing the wounds of others, we feel a certain empowerment, and can also heal the wounds within ourselves.  When McCarriston read the words "I swabbed", towards the end of the poem, I could hear this empowerment in her voice.  It is truly an incredible thing to know that you have the power to diminish another's pain.  This feeling of empowerment is probably why so many people are drawn to healing professions- doctors, psychiatrists, those who work in shelters for the homeless and for battered women and children.  The list is nearly endless.  Even those who don't heal as a profession usually do in some capacity in their personal lives, through listening to those they are close to, or doing anything else to lessen others' pain.
    In the poem, as the speaker tends the wounds of the mare, she suddenly feels that she is "both a child / and a mother".  She is not only mothering the hurt mare, but she is the child, being comforted by her own actions.   The child she once was, and who is within her still, has gone too long unmothered.   Crying out for her wounds to be tended, this child comes to the surface to partake in the healing.
        I lean into
        my own
        loving touch
        for which no wound
        is too ugly.
                (McCarriston)
This poem ends, very appropriately, with a statement of absolute, unquestioning acceptance.  No wound is too ugly or too terrible to come out and be healed.

***************