Anyway, the poem:
We are born in a horrible blood-bathed world
(we would call it so had we seen it,)
pulled or ripped from shaven motherhood,
smelling like nothing human, if we are lucky
breathing, not covered in shit.
The world outside is too cold, it is no place
for a sensible person. Why were we so warm before?
Why live for months in a personal ocean,
needing no air or hands,
what joke was it that chose that for the prologue
and not the play?
Sliced and tied off like a tourniquet
Fresh meat ready to be rolled in bread-crumbs
before being placed in a second oven,
blind and ugly we enter the world, if we are lucky
(apparently) that is the best way to go,
asleep, as though there is nothing more to see.
They smack the air into us and it is a knife,
you know it is,
Our throats are castrated for our lungs.
Good? Bad? I kind of like it, though for some reason it makes me think of Benjamin Button a bit much, and also that whole "the luckiest man is the one who has never been born", which is just one of those philosophically pretentious cure-alls, like Absurdism. Seriously, fuck Absurdism. It is so lazy and yet still so pretentious.
Also, I've been in discussion with a friend of mine who is infinitely more knowledgeable about medical terminology than I, and apparently I'm not using the term "tourniquet" correctly, and this bothers me. I want to use the best sort of metaphor, but what is it? And why is it that every now and then the word "tourniquet" makes me think of the three Musketeers and D'Artagnan playing old fashioned doubles tennis? Does anyone else see that?
This poem will be, hopefully, an excerpt from a larger body of work that will be my take on the "Seven Ages of Man" speech that Falstaff does in Shakespeare's As You Like It. Here it is, as a refresher:
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Man, isn't that depressing? I love how the comic relief characters in Shakespeare are usually the most upsetting to read or watch. I wonder if I'll actually do seven different poems for the seven different ages. Too obvious?
There's another Shakespearean inspiration for this work. It actually comes from Titus Andronicus, which might be my favorite tragedy; it is the most fucked up of them all, and if you want to see what I mean, just watch Julie Taymor's brilliant and beautiful adaptation. Just take a gander:
See what I mean? Messed. Up. Anyway, there's this part where the deliciously evil Aaron the Moor, who is escaping Rome with his newborn infant and is captured by Lucius, who has more than enough reason to hate Aaron. Aaron is a villain, who is more or less the cause for all the terrible things that happen to the good characters (he convinces Titus to cut off his own hand just for the hell of it), so Lucius decides to hang his baby in front of him, because even the good guys are sort of monsters. Aaron, despite being damnable beyond hell, loves his son, and pleads for Lucius to spare the boy, Lucius agrees to only if Aaron confesses everything that he's done:Lucius
Say on; and if it please me which thou speak'st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.
Aaron
And if it please thee! Why, assure thee, Lucius,
'Twill vex they soul to hear what I shall speak;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villanies
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd:
And this shall all be buried by my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.
This is so wonderful to me, you guys! The juxtaposition of Aaron being such an awful person, and yet caring only for the life of his child! When I was in England, the kids in my Shakespeare class admitted that they did not get this character at all, and I was like "GODDAMMIT HE IS SO GOOD." Long story short, I am a fucking nerd. The stuff that Aaron confesses to, though is some of the wickedest shit Will S has ever come up with. My favorite:
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Yeah, and then he's like "the only thing I hate is that I didn't get to do that a thousand more times" and then he gets buried up to his chest in sand and is like "whatever, I'll just scream at you the whole time."
So yeah, I want to write something that reflects the dichotomy of life being cruel and awful and our need for it to continue regardless. As exemplified by Aaron the Moor.
Sometimes I wish I'd just written a thesis so that I could get all this English Major talk out of my system. Vernacular, vernacular.
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