Jugs of methyl blue. Paint over all the walls. Women
sit cross-legged, Indian-style, in suits of the same.
Long arms Oriental eyes Kohl.
If I wrap my ribs around, it will keep me unseen.
I fit to cardboard, memory. Old newspaper,
tanned skins, the cured skins of animals.
I don't do anything for the love of it. I make
pennies. I make money, a binder of books.
3 comments:
Finally I'm getting off my ass and commenting! Okay, I like this a lot. I like the physical things found in this poem, the feeling of space, the skins used to make books brought ino consideration with the human body. The title especially has much umph to it and does a lot of speaking for you. That's why I'm not sure you would actually need to say "a binder of books" at the end -- I'm in favor of perhaps a stronger ending...let me get to that later.
The beginning is also great, wouldn't change it. I especially like how instead of saying "paint all over the walls," which one would automatically be inclined to read, you say instead "paint over all", which gives it a much more interesting rhythm, one that continues the rhythm found in "jugs of methyl blue." It also heightens the plurality of "walls," it seems there are many, and it gives a stronger image/ feeling/ sound of verticality (all/ walls).
I was thinking about whether I liked "suits of the same" and decided that I do. I like the sound and the slight ambiguity reached at the end of the line that makes you rethink the word "same." In the next line I would take out "oriental," since I think the word "Kohl" already does it for you. I like the flow of "Long arms eyes Kohl"
"Ribs" brings up a biblical image. This is a great line. The R sounds, the e sounds, the vulnerability felt. I think an especially fascinating line is "I fit to cardboard, memory." Syntactically, this can read "I fit memory to cardboard" or "I fit to cardboard, I fit to memory," both which really add a lot of power to your poem. Old materials, skins, textures, in conjunction with the past which wants to but somehow can't be left behind. Eyes, sight, reading, needing to be unseen, visual memory. I'm thinking about how the ending could somehow be different. I don't dislike it but somehow it settles into itself and instead of closing up, it seems more interesting to open up the ending a bit. Any ideas?
oh i now see it says "incomplete for now"
This one, I think, is another drawer poem.
Once I read that NYT article, I couldn't stop thinking about the women who'd run away from brothels. That part of asian culture always treats prostitutes as irredeemable, like they should be ashamed of themselves forever - even when what happened wasn't remotely their fault. Some of the women looked hawkish, though, ready to kill.
I think I want this to grow around "I don't do anything for the love of it." Reading about them, most sounded as bitter as they should be, but there was also some resignation there, and some pride of action, to be helping themselves up.
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