Posts filed under ‘Adrienne Rich’
Suppose you stood facing
from your unlived life
as you stand looking at these
stills from the unseen film?
Yourself against a wall
Yourself in the doorway
of a kind of watchman’s hut
Yourself at a window
signalling to people
you haven’t met yet
Yourself in unfamiliar clothes
with the same eyes
On a screen as wide as this, I grope for the titles.
I speak the French language like a schoolgirl of the ‘forties.
Those roads remind me of Beauce and the motorcycle.
We rode from Paris to Chartres in the March wind.
He said we should go to Spain but the wind defeated me.
France of the superhighways, I never knew you.
How much the body took in those days, and could take!
A naked lightbulb still simmers in my eyeballs.
In every hotel, I lived on the top floor.
Suppose we had time
and no money
living by our wits
which stories would you tell?
I would tell the story
of Pierrot Le Fou
not a woman
but love itself
till his head blew off
not quite intentionally
I would tell all the stories I knew
in which people went wrong
but the nervous system
was right all along
The island blistered at our feet.
At first we mispronounced each others’ names.
All the leaves of the tree were scribbled with words.
There was a language there but no-one to speak it.
Sometimes each of us was alone.
At noon on the beach our shadows left us.
The net we twisted from memory kept on breaking.
The damaged canoe lay on the beach like a dead animal.
You started keeping a journal on a coconut shell.
When I close my eyes
have been there all along –
a market shot:
bins of turnips, feet
of dead chickens
close-up: a black old woman
buying voodoo medicines
a figure of terrible faith
and I know her needs
an empty room stacked with old films
I am kneeling on the floor
it is getting dark
they want to close the building
and I still haven’t found you
Scanning reel after reel
tundras in negative
all those scenes
but the light is failing
and you are missing
from the footage of the march
the railway disaster
the snowbound village
even the shots of the island
yet you were there
in order to see
if you know how the story ends
why tell it
in order to forget
the surface is always lucid
my shadows are under the skin
in order to control
the eye of the camera
doesn’t weep tears of blood
for that is what one does
climbing your stairs, over and over
I memorized the bare walls
This is my way of coming back
If you’ve been reading 2x3x7 this week, you know that I practically worship Godard. So when we first came up with this theme, this Adrienne Rich poem was one of the first pieces I thought of, mostly because it’s about a film that I love and have blogged about elsewhere.
The poem itself I’ll admit to having some reservations about. I love parts 1, 3 and 6, which for me, resonate strongly with the film, and I think part 5 is stunning though I’m less sure of its connection to the film. Mostly though, I’m just not sure if the poem works for a reader who hasn’t watched the film, so if you fall into that category I’d love to know what you think.
That said, for those who have watched the film (and if you haven’t you really, really must – here’s the trailer to entice you) I think Rich does a splendid job of evoking the spirit of the film – its feel of whimsy, of endless reinvention, its carefully constructed haphazardness, its sense of things constantly shifting, of the mind constantly searching for the right words, the right story, the right image, all joined to an idea of beauty, a living, aching beauty that exists in the present without caring for the past or for consequences. “The story / of Pierrot Le Fou / who trusted / not a woman / but love itself” as Rich so eloquently puts it.
Posted as part of the Blank Noise Blog-a-thon
There is a cop who is both prowler and father
he comes from your block, grew up with your brothers,
had certain ideals.
You hardly know him in his boots and silver badge,
on horseback, one hand touching his gun.
You hardly know him but you have to get to know him:
he has access to machinery that could kill you.
He and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash,
his ideals stand in the air, a frozen cloud
from between his unsmiling lips.
And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him,
the maniac's sperm still greasing your thighs,
your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confess
to him, you are guilty of the crime
of having been forced.
And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the family
whom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten,
his hand types out the details
and he wants them all
but the hysteria in your voice pleases him best.
You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you:
he has taken down your worst moment
on a machine and filed it a file.
He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined;
He knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted.
He has access to machinery that could get you put away;
And if, in the sickening light of the precinct,
And if, in the sickening light of the precinct,
Your details sound like a portrait of your confessor,
Will you swallow, will you deny them, will you lie your way home?
The first time I read 'Rape', I wasn't too impressed by it. The starting seemed confused and off the point, some of the repetition seemed contrived and there was a general sense of clunkiness to the poem, the sense that things didn't quite fit. Rich, I thought, was capable of so much better than this.
Over the years, though, I've found myself haunted by this poem, forced to come back to it because every time I read some report on sexual violence or harassment the lines from this poem reassert themselves. That kind of impact, the ability of a poem to become part of the language you think in, is rare enough to force a reevaluation of the poem's merit, and my appreciation for it has deepened considerably over time. If relevance matters, if a valid test for poetry is its ability to be true in simple yet insightful ways, then this is a great poem.
There are three reasons why I think this poem works. First, because it highlights what I've come to consider the key issue in sexual harassment / violence (especially in the Indian context) – the inadequacy of institutional support. Rich dismisses the actual rapist with a single word ("maniac")  but chooses to focus instead on the reaction of the very person who's supposed to be protecting the victim – the policeman. Who is the real criminal here, she seems to ask, which is the real rape? No society is ever going to be able to entirely eliminate perverts and criminals from among its ranks. Therefore no system can guarantee a woman total security. What the right set of institutions can do, however is a) limit the probability of crime by enforcing strong sanctions against sexual criminals and b) contain the damage of the crime when it happens by ensuring support to and dignity of the victim. That's all that we can realistically hope for, that's all that initiatives like the Blank Noise Blog-a-thon may, just may, help to achieve. By focussing on that aspect of it, Rich draws attention to this graver, more general betrayal, and highlights, through it, the collective guilt we bear for the damage sexual violence does, our responsibility in it, the extent of our culpability.
Second, in writing about this sort of secondary victimisation, Rich manages to capture its true pathology. Line after line from this poem sums up, with a clarity tinged with bitterness, the indignities that victims of sexual crimes are subject to. Lines like "you are guilty of the crime / of having been forced" or "He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined / he knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted" ring true precisely because these are arguments that we, tragically, still encounter. 'Rape' captures not only the bewilderment of finding that the very institutions you have been taught to trust, the people you grew up with, the men who are loving fathers, careful husbands, turn out to be the ones who let you down; but also the combination of machismo ("he and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash") and power ("he has access to machinery that could get you put away") that leads to that outcome.
Third, the more I think about it, it occurs to me that the very rawness of the poem, its clumsiness, its lack of fit, is a deliberate attempt to make the poem more disturbing, so that the queasiness you feel reading the poem – its "sickening light" – serves to enhance the experience it describes. This is an uncomfortable poem, but it is not a poem we can turn away from, it is not a poem we can afford to ignore.
The poem is not, of course, about street harassment (sorry, I couldn't find a poem about it, and I looked ), but I think the underlying ideas are still relevant, and the difference, sadly, may be more of degree than of kind.
 Not that Rich lets those who offend her get away so easily elsewhere. In 'The Phenomenology of Anger', she writes:
Fantasies of murder: not enough:
to kill is to cut off from pain
but the killer goes on hurting
Not enough. When I dream of meeting
the enemy, this is my dream:
ripples from my body
on the true enemy
raking his body down to the thread
burning away his lie
leaving him in a new
world; a changed
 the other poem I considered was an infinitely less sombre Don Marquis:
"i caught the boob in the shrubbery
pretty thing i said
it hurts me worse than it does you
to remove that left eye of yours
but i did it with one sweep of my claws
you call yourself a gentleman do you
i said as i took a strip out of his nose
you will think twice after this before
you offer an insult
to an unprotected young tabby
where is the little love nest you spoke
of i asked him
you go and lie down there i said
and maybe you can incubate another ear
because i am going to take one of
yours right off now
and with those words i made ribbons
out of it you are the guy
i said to him that was going to give
me an easy life sheltered from all
the rough ways of the world
fluffy dear you don t know what the
rough ways of the world are
and i am going to show you
i have got you out here
in the great open spaces
where cats are cats
and i m going to make you understand
the affections of a lady ain t to be
trifled with by any slicker like you
where is that red ribbon with the
silver bells you promised me
the next time you betray the trust
of an innocent female
reflect on whether she may
carry a wallop little fiddle strings
this is just a midl lesson i am giving
you tonight i said as i took
the fur off his back and you oughta
be glad you didn't make me really
angry my sense of dignity is all that
saves you a lady little sweetness
never loses her poise and i thank god
i am always a lady even if i do
live my own life and with that i
picked him up by what was left of
his neck like a kitten and laid him
on the doormat"
Not quite relevant, perhaps, but good fun.