My first book was The Book of Orgasms. Ever since, I have
felt a little bit cursed. Because
whenever I give a reading, people want me to read a poem about an orgasm. No matter how hard I try to find an
alternative, I fail.
I have come to the conclusion
that there is no such thing as an alternative to orgasms. Whether I like it or
not, people come to my readings anticipating, and when they don’t get what they
want, they fidget and talk. Sometimes they raise their hands and ask, When are we going to have an orgasm? And if I say never, they take out their cell phones and press their fingers
rapidly into the pads, as if to assuage their disappointment and anxiety. I look out at the audience and see heads bent
and hands active in laps. It’s true.
I told this to my French friend,
Ann, who informed me that such behavior doesn’t happen in France. Even at the dinner table, one keeps his or
her hands above the table cloth, and his elbows on the table. If the hands are
beneath the table, if the hands can’t be seen, everyone knows what’s going on.
But, my French friend added, a
poet like me can avert such problems. Just
give everyone an orgasm right away.
Just one will do for the average
person. Then you can do with them what
you please. When I complained that I
was tired of my same old orgasms, she said, Make
up a new one. A new orgasm for a new
occasion. Why not?
So I am currently working on a
new book of orgasms, orgasms inspired by my favorite poets, such as
these . . .
these . . .
Yes
Orgasms are bad news. In the town
where I grew up, people didn’t allow them.
They nipped them in the bud. Men
and women dressed in heavy black cloaks.
On windy days they looked like dark sails on the streets. By the time I was twelve, I wanted an
orgasm. Just one, I said. I knew it
was a bad idea. Wise men tried to convince me to behave. They explained that men and women were made
in the image of God. We must live godly
lives. God never had an orgasm. Neither should I.
I did my best to remain
orgasm-less. But curiosity got the
better of me.
One day I felt one. Fresh, alive, pungent. My soul left my body at once. It caught fire like paper. My face gave me away. Suddenly everyone knew. Especially the
men. And
such men! They were so obliging
then. When no one was looking, they took
off their coats and ties. They took off
their white button-down shirts, their trousers, their shiny wingtip shoes, and
their skinny black socks. The men became
acrobats in disguise. How could I have
ever guessed? And how could one, or
once, have ever been enough? Like little
h’ors d’ouevres! I consumed them all. I
could not help myself. Though I was
careful to examine each one carefully, and with utmost respect, to inspect
their colors and sizes and shapes and flavors.
Oh yes, I said, and thank you, and please, and yes.
And so it was that I came to
write A Field Guide to Nudes. A Field Guide to Desires. A Field Guide to Orgasms . . .
I was so busy with my research, I
had no time to reflect. No time to
consider the consequence of my acts. Of
course I should have known. The people
were outraged. They chased me into the
streets and out of the city gates. Now I
can never go back. I live alone with my
desires. With my dreams that never stop
dreaming. With these orgasms that never
stop singing my name. Yes, it’s a
fact! Whatever they say, I can only
sigh. Whatever they wish for, I just say
yes. Yes!
Yes! I say yes. Again and again, I say
yes. And I will say it for you if you
ask.
Yes!
Yes! Yes!
The City of the Orgasm
after
Italo Calvino
A man could travel for years
without finding the city of the orgasm, a city where every staircase, statue,
window, violin, perfume, dream, song, even every brawl or brand of beer is
inspired by the orgasm. A first-timer
might hesitate upon entering, not knowing how to find his place among the
throngs of men and women, all dream-colored and nude in the soft light of
desire. But here, as in every city,
while some inhabitants are as lovely as angels but possess an iciness (or what
the French call une froideur glaciale),
others blaze with rage and urgency, their fists raised in the air. Still others weep and melt like ice cream on
the pastel-colored streets. Some parade their orgasms around like trained
poodles, giving them treats when they jump through hoops, yap, or roll over and
play dead. Others feel as if they are
stuck in elevators, ridden up and down by the orgasms for hours with no
particular exit plan. Still others
never know they are there. Or how little
time they have. They linger in
restrooms, staring into mirrors, picking hairs from their brows and chins,
applying blush and perfume. Many fall to
their knees, their faces to the ground, saying Amen again and again, as if it were too much to ask for more. Their prayers move across the skin in slow,
red waves. No one can stay for
long. But no matter how many times a man
leaves, he can never recall the exact geography of the town. Only his first and
last moments remain clear in the mind.
All else remains forever a secret of the city of the orgasm.
My Last Deirdre
after
Frank O’Hara
I am a not woman. I am an orgasm.
An orgasm of life.
Why? I dunno. I would rather be
a woman, but I am not. I am not
like my friend, Deirdre.
When I drop in to see her, she
says,
“Sit down. Have a glass of
Cabernet.”
I drink. She drinks. I look up.
“You are always welcome here,”
Deirdre says.
“Okay,” I say. So I come.
And she comes, and the days go
by.
I drop in again. And again.
And I come, and she comes,
and the days go by.
One day I drop in.
“Where’s Deirdre?” I ask.
All that’s left of her
is a heap of soiled sheets
and three socks. One sock
is blue. One sock is orange.
Another sock is pink.
“She had enough,” the cleaning
lady says.
But me? I keep thinking of
Deirdre. So I write a poem
called “Deirdre.” I write another
“Deirdre.” Then another.
For Deirdre is life.
And I am an orgasm of life.
Therefore I am an orgasm of
Deirdre.
As the great Aristotle said,
if A=B, and B=C, then A=C.
Days go by. I tire of Deirdre.
I stop writing about Deirdre.
I erase her from my pages.
I erase her from my mind.
We are finished, I think.
I will never mention Deirdre
again.
But I have written twelve poems.
I call them MY DEIRDRES.
One day I see Deirdre again.
She says, “Do you remember me?
I shake my head, “No.”
I shake my head, “No.”
I leave. I do not look back.
I write a thirteenth poem
called “My Last Deirdre.”
I leave the page blank.
When I first started writing poetry, I didn't like the confessional poetry that was so popular at the time. I was not a huge fan of Plath or Sexton. I decided I would try to avoid autobiography altogether. Of course, after a while that became a little weird. There's only so much not-telling you can do. My book, Southern Comfort, was my first attempt to record some of my story.
Dear Confessional Poet,
How else can I say it?
I hate what you do.
You and your entire school.
Ever since that Christmas ages
ago
when my parents gave me the
complete works
of Ann Sexton, and Sylvia, too.
Like Princess Di, both of them,
only the princess was in the
right profession.
Of course, in those days
confessional was IN.
Poems about my ugly face and big,
bad daddy.
For some reason they remind me
of the first time I went to an
evangelical church.
It was with my friend, Mary Rose.
She was just so sweet, she wanted
to save me.
After the service women gathered
in this carpeted room
called the library (without
books),
and one of the clergy asked us
to
kindly tell a little tidbit or two about our wounds.
It was horrible. I was
there.
I can’t tell you how horrible it
was.
As if on cue this blonde
started sobbing and talking of abuse.
Even her bouffant hair was
trembling . . .
Terrible tales of an alcoholic
dad
and what he did, and others
chiming in, Me too.
When it was my turn, I couldn’t
think
so I told how once upon a time,
when I was a little girl,
my mom hated shopping so much,
she bought everything two sizes
too big.
Even my underpants were huge.
They came all the way up to my
nipples,
and my skinny legs hung out
of the holes like spaghetti
strands.
Thank
you for sharing, everyone said.
All I wanted to do was puke.
I think everyone did.
I think that’s what sharing
means.
Mary Rose patted my knee and
hissed.
Is
that true?
Yes, I said,
but I wished it weren’t. I wished I’d lied.
Later, that’s what my professor
said to do.
Why
not, he told an entire class:
Define
the woman you aren’t and live to tell about it.
Southern
Accent
The day I came
home with a busted lip and two black eyes,
my mother said the problem with
me
was my southern accent. Get rid
of that extra y
in
Dayaddy, and you’re talking about your father,
not
some deity.
I tried to tell her it began with
a dayare,
but my mother said it was dare,
not dayare,
and besides that, she didn’t want
to hear one thing about it.
A
girl is supposed to act nice.
And
speak like a lady.
If
you’re going to fight like a boy,
you
can cut your hair like one, too.
What’s more, that stuff growing on top of your head
is not hay as in hayer, it’s hair.
Driving to Watson’s Beauty Salon
downtown
on Jefferson Park Avenue, she
instructed me
to open my mouth nice and wide,
say ahhh, not ayyy.
I
didn’t mean to, I tried to explain.
It
was just an accident.
Not
everything rhymes with Bayer, my mother commented.
She was from New England. She wasn’t like me.
But I never could get it
right. No matter how I tried,
I’d hear my father’s voice,
his Memphis drawl in the back of
my head:
You
being about as helpful as a crawdayaddy under a rock?
When
was the last time you peeled your mama spuds
or
washed your hayands and said something sweet
with
a smile on those rosebud liyips?
I knew how to answer him, keep my
eyes cast down,
my voice a wisp: No, Sir. Yes Sir. Or, if I dared:
Can
I please be excused?
No
Ma’am, he’d answer just as quick as a blink.
You
can. But you may not.
Not
as long as you don’t know
which
word is proper,
and
what kind of excuse you might be.
I’d wait, keep my mouth shut
tight.
But there were always those
thoughts
circling my mind, sassing him
like a beginner’s violin,
the slow ache in the middle of
each word
I’d never lose:
You
think you’re as bright as a rock
on
a rain-soaked night?
When
was the last time you were anybody’s wish?
But my best one was this: You say you’re my daddy.
Well,
what if?
A
lot of my poet friends are former teachers' pets. They loved school so much, they write as if
they are still in school. Me, I was never a happy pupil. I especially hated the early years. Raising my hand to ask to go the
bathroom. Trying to sit still. Lining up
for fire drills. But the worst part was those awful Dick and Jane books. Learning to read with Dick and Jane. The only thing worse than reading Dick and
Jane books was answering the reading comprehension questions about Dick and
Jane. Did Dick run? How did Dick
run? Name Dick’s dog. I developed a disturbing habit of making up
reading comprehension questions ever since those early readers.
Questions about Dick and Jane
1. Is
this book about a particular Dick, or a universal Dick?
2. Is
Dick really Dick, or is he merely a symbol of Dick?
3. What
might Dick be a symbol of?
4. Are
you disturbed or surprised by Dick’s limited vocabulary?
5. What
is the cultural context in which Dick first appeared?
6. Is
anything missing from these stories?
7. Is
the sun always shining in Dick’s world?
Is Spot always running?
8. Would
you consider this book: a) an edge of your seat suspense (b) a leisurely summer read strictly
educational
9. Who
came first, Dick or Jane?
10. Is
this a sign of gender identity?
11. How
would Dick be different if this book were written today?
12. Has
our relationship to Dick changed?
13. Is
Dick’s world the real world? Or is it just a fantasy?
14. Would you prefer a fantasy
Dick?
I
think that school health teachers are well-meaning, but some topics just don't
lend themselves to the school environment.
Especially if that school is a religious school. These next two poems are about sex ed:
Bathing in Your Brother’s Bathwater
Bathing,
Miss De Angelo informed us in health class,
is very important, especially
once you become a teenager.
In fact I can smell many of you
this very day,
so I advise every one of you
girls
to go home and take a good long
bath tonight.
I know some of your folks like to
skimp on water,
but consider it homework.
Say Miss De Angelo assigned it to
you.
But Girls, let me warn you.
Never take a bath in the same
water as your teenage brother.
Why?
Well picture this:
all those tiny bubbles settling
on your legs
when you sit in a nice tub of
water.
If you could count every itty,
bitty bubble,
that would be only a fraction of
how many sperm
stream from a single man.
Even if he doesn’t touch himself,
the water does.
And it only takes one.
One fast moving whip-tailed
sperm.
And you know how easy it is to
catch a cold,
how quickly that little virus
races clear through you.
And once that happens,
no one will believe you’re any
Virgin Mary,
no matter what you say.
Sex
Education According to My Mother
is a total waste of time.
Surely,
if the heifers can figure it out,
you girls can too.
My
father practiced every superstition known to man, and a few I don’t think
anyone else knew. This next poem is
about one superstition I think he made up.
Or at least, I’ve never met anyone who knew of it. It’s the superstition that says every twenty
minutes we vanish for just a split second, and trade places with the dead.
These next two poems are about my
father.
Like This
When I was a girl, my father
said, every twenty minutes we vanish, go silent, join the dead and our
dreams. If you could time it, and knew
when to start the clock, you’d see them, too, lingering there between one thought
and the next. Some steal a breath of
your air or give you a pinch. Others
walk right through you on whim. A sudden
chill, a shudder, it’s the natural response.
Try to stop them if you can, repress or pretend. Say no one’s here. You’re all alone in the evening air. It makes no difference to them. They know where they’ve been. And how much they like it, touching you like
this, traveling through you again and again.
The Fight
It happened the morning my father
reached for his shaving cream and knocked over my mother’s $105 an ounce
Christian Dior Diorissimo perfume.
Instead of apologizing, my father screamed a stream of profanities, so
long and loud, even the three family hounds and 4 stray cats would not re-enter
the house for a week. That day my father
told everyone, including the plumber and the druggist, how he couldn’t
comprehend how a sane soul could live with a woman whose bathroom is nothing
but maze of perfumes and powders, lotions and elixirs, pills, douches and
palliatives, and God only knows what all else, and he kept right on talking
because it soon became clear that even after frequent laundering and
dry-cleanings, his favorite suit would forever retain the disturbingly floral
scent he associated with both my mother
and funeral parlors.
My mother had an instinct for
retaliation. She began to inquire of
guests at cocktail parties just why it is a man can’t learn to control his
aim. After 12 years of marriage, not a
morning had passed, she explained, when she had not had to Lysol and wipe up at
least one splash from the rim of her toilet bowl or floor. Long ago she had had to dispose of her
lavender furry toilet covers and bath rugs.
Surely they are unsanitary in any bathroom shared by the male
species. She even began to wonder why
some sort of disposable funnel had not been invented by Proctor and Gamble or
Johnson and Johnson, which could be attached to a penis, perhaps with a rubber
band or Velcro, and made to conduct the flow neatly into a toilet bowl without
mishap. Of course, she reasoned, men run
the business world, and while they have no problem inventing any number of
products to inhibit female odors and comfort, it would never occur to them to
improve their own standards of hygiene, now would it? My mother even went so far as to design a hose-like
mechanism, using the tubing from her defunct bonnet hair dryer for my father to
“test-drive,” but when he refused she asked him to use the hall bathroom and
placed a sign on the door, Women Only.
In a house of many daughters, the message was clear. My father was not welcome.
I
wrote a chapbook of poems based on notes, emails, and comments that students
gave to my husband, a professor of physics.
The book is called Dear Professor,
Do You Live in a Vacuum? Each poem
begins is called “Dear Professor.”
Dear Professor,
I should have dropped your class.
If I’d known how badly I was
going to do,
I’d have found another way to get
credit.
All I needed was a C.
There should be a class for
people like me.
It might be a relief for both of
us.
Think about it.
You wouldn’t expect very much,
and we wouldn’t disappoint you.
Dear Professor,
I read this article about the
difference
between men and women
and why men are good at math and
science
and women are good with people.
It said men have mono-tracking
brains.
They can focus on one thing
and only one thing at a time.
When men brush their teeth, for
example,
they stand with their feet a foot
apart,
their heads bent over the sink
concentrating.
This relates to how they solve
math problems.
I did notice that Joe, my TA, has
really clean teeth.
Dear Professor,
I still don’t believe heavy
and light things fall at the same
speed.
A feather and a stone, for
example.
You kept saying I’d get it
if I lived in a vacuum.
Do you live in a vacuum?
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