Canadian writer Elly Danica is the author of Don't: A Woman's Word (Gynergy Books, 1988), a short book of prose poetry which charts her experience growing up in a violent family, her entrapment in an oppressive marriage, and eventual solitary existence. My life experience also includes a history of family violence. Full-length published poetry books on surviving family violence are hard to find and, as a young poet, I was thrilled to discover Danica's work and a kinship with another poet.
After reading Danica's book, I felt a stronger sense of direction in my poetry writing. Not having a supportive relationship with my own mother I looked for other women, other mentors, for guidance. Like Danica, my experience of family violence includes sexual violence (though not gang rape). I wrote a short chapbook called adventures of amelia about my experience of childhood sexual violence and departure from home.
Danica is an extraordinary writer. It takes a lot of fortitude, strength of mind, psychological insight, and skill to produce such a lucid, readable, and educational account of an experience of domestic violence. Some published literary writings on incest over-emphasize forgiveness and avoid a deep exploration of normal feelings of hate and rage. Danica's book Don’t, in contrast, acknowledges and works through negative feelings and shows why this is important in developing a greater capacity for love. Her book reflects emotional realism and psychological depth. I also strive to manifest these literary qualities in my poems on child abuse issues.
In Don't Danica is always mindful of never presenting the young Danica as a passive victim and always as a thoughtful, reasonable, and creative person, making intelligent choices despite severe constraints. I too have sought to present girls in an empowering way in my poems.
Don't received a lot of media attention and Danica became engaged with public speaking on child abuse issues. In Beyond Don't: Dreaming Past the Dark (Gynergy Books,1996), she notes a struggle with the dilemma of how to divide her energy between helping society with child welfare issues and doing creative work (p. 100). This is a problem that I too struggle with, and also with deciding how much attention to devote to child welfare issues in my poetry and essay-writing.
In Beyond Don't, Danica movingly explores her relationship with her mother. As a girl she had sympathized with her mother's difficulties as a new immigrant lacking the regular support of her Dutch mother living in Holland and had promoted communication between them. She also discusses her own plight of being stranded between two cultures and of not feeling at home in either. I too have explored cultural and immigration issues in my writing. My book Noble Orphan (Demeter Press, 2012) includes several poems about an ESL class of immigrant women. I explore some of their adaptation challenges and those of their children, whom I privately tutored.
In Beyond Don't, Danica writes about the public's reception of her book Don't. Some reviewers treated her book Don't more as a self-help or therapeutic book than as a book of prose poetry, calling it courageous, inspirational, and healing. Others saw it as a lurid sex book or, finding the book aggressive, saw her as a man-hater. Most did not engage with the issues and feminist perspectives presented in the book or situate it within the context of Canadian or North American literature and discuss it in relation to other books.
I received some similar responses to my first book of poetry, Welcoming (Inanna Publications, 2009), which explores diverse topics and includes some poems on incest and surviving chronic childhood trauma. Despite good blurbs from other poets, a reviewer wrote that because I had dedicated the book to incest survivors, (people with whom I feel a strong kinship), and it contained some poems on incest, the book was more therapeutic than literary. Many poets explore family relationships and experiences, and so why should poems about very harmful experiences in the family be treated differently?
I hope that by honouring Danica here as a literary mother other survivors of family violence will feel that they too have a right to write about their life experiences and be included in Canadian literature.
Andrea Nicki is a poet, essayist, philosophy professor and disability activist who lives in Vancouver. She has two poetry books published by Toronto presses: Noble Orphan by Demeter Press (2012) and Welcoming by Inanna Press (2009). She is currently finalizing a new collection. Her poetry explores social, cultural, and environmental issues and has been published in Canadian and American journals, such as Rampike, The Goose, The Brock Review and Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature. She teaches graduate courses on professional ethics and human rights issues in the workplace. She is a member of the editorial board of Understorey Magazine, which publishes literary writing and visual art by and about Canadian women and seeks out underrepresented stories and voices.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Monday, June 19, 2017
Sue Rainsford on Cixous, McBride, Kapil and Yuknavitch
A
text is a body, not only of words but of flesh.
As
such, prose is open wound, aching limb.
And
so, a book isn’t shaped by story.
It
takes root in sensation.
o
When I read
Helene Cixous’ The Third Body, I
realised that literary prose could be the excrescence of sensation. The book is
the product of the narrator and her lover’s relationship: the third body is what
their two bodies produce when conjoined. More importantly, the book is a corpus
that allows the female body speak to itself. If I’d read The Laugh of the Medusa I might have said that ‘l’écriture
feminine implodes female difference in text’, but I hadn’t read it, and
turning the pages of The Third Body
could only marvel at this female flesh living a life of paperly inscription.
…your
womb is not dreaming, your body is not mistaken… yes, flesh has an undeniable memory…(82)
o
When I read
Eimear McBride’s A Girl is a Half-formed
Thing, I realised that not only could a novel be an excrescence of
sensation, but that it could bend and break in time with the body it depicts. The
narrator’s body is generating the prose, and so the two run in tandem. Trauma
befalls A Girl, and so the prose breaks: their meaning must be intuited. Sensation
is once more the driving force, but rather than induce an expansive
intertextuality, as with Cixous, the intensity of pleasure and pain reduces the
scope of expression. In this hemmed-in state, language falters but literature
still plays an expressive role:
Sting
and itch. Not from disease. From new stretched and snapped skin. Up inside that
will not fit in time. Expand and let him lurch there… Almost too much of my
body taken up. The air squeezed our. The air pushed to the edge. Coming out my
eyes. My ears. Too much. Where is the room for. Too much so much. It. Is too
much then. (58)
o
When I read
Bhanu Kapil’s Humanimal: a project for
future children, I realised that not only can text be rooted in and embody
sensation, that its undulations can match the body it pursues, but that it can capture
sensation never before signified. It can serve bodies previously outside the
realm of representation, and fashion for them vocabularies that also track the
method and impact of their marginalisation. The role of the text, then, is to
bring new kinds of corporeality into the world.
A feral body,
for instance, is one that lives by its senses and produces feral knowledge.
A feral body is
the body of a girl who had a wolf for a mother and so walked on all fours, and
had her legs broken when a reverend tried to return her to society.
If a feral girl opens
her mouth to speak, what does she say?
I bit my own arm and ate it. Here is my belly, frosted with meat. (13)
o
When I read Lidia
Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water: a
memoir, I realised that not only can prose be pure sensation, that it can
follow the patterns of sensation and embody as well as represent sensation
never captured before, but that it can alter the way the reader inhabits her
own body. The act of reading can destabilise our relation to prose, to the fact
of the page.
Literature is,
foremost, a call to the body, and can alter the kinds of corporeality already
at play in the world. It is suffused with carnal reminders that your body can,
at any time, generate new meaning.
…who
would have thought of it but you – your ability to metamorphose like organic
material in contact with changing elements. (37)
o
Sometimes you
read a phrase, and then you read it again, and then again, and then put the
book down. Only a while later, you realise why it has affected you: it has made
it a little easier for you to be a woman moving through the world.
This world that
is predisposed to forget, undermine and hurt you. This world that seeps into
even the smallest space: the space between your mouth and the cup you drink
from in the morning, the space between your lover and the sheets. It steals
there and scalds you, chafes you. Doesn’t mind your skin has been made red, so
long as its point has been made. You are a woman and so, in even the safest of
spaces, are often obliged to seek shelter.
These writers
have all been integral in presenting ways in which writing is a ladder, a
weapon and a buoy. It is a means of shelter but also one of resistance: it is
another limb, unbreakable. Another dexterous tongue that sits under your own.
They are also
all an assurance that writing – an act
preformed in solitude, a performance which is guaranteed no audience, a labour
whose fruits may not ripen within your lifetime – can affect poetic and ontological
change in the world.
Writing is the
tool by which you take your body back from ideology.
It is how you
bring your female body – alive with
anger, slippery with sex – into the world.
It is a
practical, volatile gift to the woman behind you.
works cited
Cixous,
Hélène. The third body. Northwestern University Press, 1999.
McBride, Eimear. A
Girl is a Half-formed Thing: A Novel. Crown/Archetype, 2014.
Kapil, Bhanu. Humanimal:
A Project for Future Children. Kelsey Street Press, 2009.
Yuknavitch,
Lidia. The chronology of water: A memoir. Hawthorne Books, 2013.
Sue Rainsford is a writer & researcher based in Dublin. A
graduate of Trinity College and IADT, she recently completed her MFA in Writing
& Literature at Bennington College, Vermont. She is editor of the limited
edition publication some mark made, a Ploughshares blogger for 2017, and
recipient of the VAI Critical Writing Award 2016/17. Her practice is concerned
with hybrid texts and radical experience, the intersection between visual and
literary arts practices, and fusing embodiment with critical inquiry.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Lorin Medley on H.D.
Beyond the Sheltered Garden: In Search
of a Muse
Forty years
ago, when I chanced upon H.D.’s autobiographical novel, Bid Me to Live in a bookstore, something stirred in my solar
plexus. There was the title, of course, that beckoned me out of my malaise. And
the story about writers living in London during the 1917 air raids, their
romantic and literary tensions. But it was H.D.’s poetic prose that caused the
biggest flutter: it seemed like a kind of golden joinery for her characters’
fractured worlds. I immediately tracked down a second-hand copy of The
Sheltered Garden.
O
to blot out this garden
to
forget, to find a new beauty
in
some terrible
wind-tortured
place.
^
What’s in a
name? I disliked mine. Lauren as in Lauren Bacall would have been fine, but not
Lorin with an “i”, often mispronounced as the masculine, “Lorne.” Hilda
Doolittle was equally underwhelmed with her name. Do little. She determined to
write herself into being. At various times, she called herself Edith Gray, J.
Beran, Roda Peter, Helga Dart, Helga Dorn, D.A. Hill, Hermione Gart, Julia
Ashton, Delia Alton. Sigmund Freud called her “the perfect bisexual” and Ezra
Pound called her “Dryad,” his wood spirit muse. When Pound scribbled, “H.D.,
Imagiste” on a napkin and then sent three of her poems off to Harriet Monroe at
Poetry magazine, H.D. embraced her nom de plume. Neither male, nor female, it offered
freedom from binary gender constraints.
^
At school in
1976, I worked hard and followed the rules, but apart from Lit class, life
seemed humdrum. I envied the girl in the drama club with long black hair like
Cher’s streaked chartreuse green. Back in 1905, at Pennsylvania’s Bryn Mawr
College, H.D. was that girl: tall, smart, exotic looking. She once shook ink from her pen over her
clothes as a warmup for writing. And, just as I would drop out of university
after my first year, H.D. dropped out of college after only three semesters. Still,
she had her poet friends: Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams, and the
young man to whom she became engaged, Ezra Pound.
In my twenties,
I spent hours in Special Collections at the University of Victoria transcribing
the poems of a man I’d met in the bar while drinking underage. He would hold
court on the virtues of Thomas Wolfe, cats, the Montreal Canadians, Robert
Creeley, and Ezra Pound. His flaws are inconsequential—he had that quality I
craved: a poetic mind. We lived together for seven years, but there comes a
point in a relationship where you must choose between the comfort of adoration
and the terror of growth. I took H.D.’s lead. She rejected marriage, but
followed Pound to London to pursue poetry.
^
O
snail.
I
know that you are singing;
your
husk is a skull,
your
song is an echo,
your
song is infinite as the sea,
your
song is nothing
H.D. “The Poet”
World War I
changed everything. Artists, poets, and musicians tried to reassemble a
fragmented world. Picasso painted Les Desmoiselles. Varese reorganized sound.
Pound and his circle of avant-garde modernists (William Carlos Williams,
Richard Aldington, H.D.) called for a new poetic style based on “direct
treatment of the thing, whether subjective or objective.”[1] Something spare, modern, less metred and
more musical: wet petals on a black bough, a red wheelbarrow glazed with
rainwater.
Fruit
cannot drop through this thick air --
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
H.D.
“Garden”
Despite the recognition
she had earned, H.D. outgrew the Imagist birdhouse.
you
are true
to
your self, being true
to
the irony
of
your shell.
H.D. “The Poet”
The call to
poetry is a call to self and that requires both human and spirit guides. H.D.
suffered a breakdown after the war and the muse failed her. With the support of
her longtime lover, Bryher, she sought help from Sigmund Freud, the father of
psychoanalysis. Feminism and penis envy may seem like an odd fit, but help can
arrive in unexpected packages. Freud helped H.D. explore “the hieroglyph of the
unconscious” (Tribute to Freud 93), her bisexuality, and all things Oedipal. He
recommended that she write about difficult events without embellishment or a
distancing mask. It worked: her writing block lifted.
H.D., I hear
you: my biggest fear is to be without words.
^
H.D. explored
archetypes and mythical patterns that resonated with her experience in a
male-dominated world. In her last major work, Helen in Egypt, she offered a feminist perspective to
the story of a woman conceived after a rape and whose beauty was blamed for
starting a ten-year war:
All Greece hates / the
still eyes in the white face
H.D.
“Helen”
I love the claustrophobic assonance in that line,
the close attention to syllables.
In her
rendering of “Eurydice,” the long-suffering, previously silent Eurydice screams
back at Orpheus:
At
least I have the flowers of myself,
and
my thoughts, no god
can
take that;
I
have the fervour of myself for a presence
and
my own spirit for light.
H.D. had
many visionary and paranormal experiences, including a gift for astral travel
passed down from her grandmother. Her
later poems incorporated teachings from the occultist Ambelain and his
goddess-centered vision of spirituality.
I had psychotherapists and
medicine women as guides. On retreat in Ontario’s Horseshoe Valley, I participated
in sweat lodges and shamanic journeys. I learned to trust my intuition and listen
to sources outside everyday experience.
H.D. describes her method as
“a matter of being quiet and heeding the mental pulse of sound.” My numbed self—timid bird with its
monotonous note—woke up to H.D.’s incantatory poetic voice. She taught me that we
can grow into our writerly selves by dismantling the forces that would hold us
back and looking for beauty in uncultivated places. Above all, she showed me
that there is a palimpsest of poetic spirit that breaks through day-to-day life
if we let it, if we hunker down in the lonely wind and listen.
Lorin Medley is a counsellor and
writer from Comox, BC. Her poetry and fiction have been published in The Puritan, Portal, and an upcoming (Fall 2017) poetry anthology with Caitlin
Press, Refugium: Poems for the Pacific. She won the 2014
Islands Short Fiction Contest and the 2015 Books Matter poetry prize and was
long listed for the 2016 Prism International Poetry Contest.
Monday, June 5, 2017
Terry Abrahams on Anne Carson
“There’s
no word for the ‘floating’ gender in which we’d all like to rest.”
– Anne Carson
In an interview for the Paris Review’s Fall 2004 issue, Anne Carson addresses what has been, for her, a lifetime of
fluctuations in her gender identity. However, so casually does she gloss over
this fact that you know, at least for her, this is natural. This is a part of
life. This is who she is. She addresses that she has never felt entirely female
– and neither have I. I am not a woman, nor am I man, and although I use
pronouns commonly ascribed to men, I do it because, as Carson says, “when
you’re talking about yourself you only have these two options.” Of course, for
many, this is not true – pronouns go far beyond the typical hem and haw of him
and her. But I’m inclined to think that, like Carson, I am ascribed to one over
the other based on my experience drifting through this world as always-Othered
on the gender spectrum.
It is this
gender spectrum that often comes up when we address motherhood. So closely linked
to the biological function of giving birth is motherhood (and the gender
binary) that we forget that not all women are mothers, and not all mothers are
women. Mothering is an act in all iterations of the word. But at its core, to
mother is to embody a continuous act of care, consideration, and guidance,
something that anyone, in my opinion, can do (whether or not they have a knack
for it, at first – like writing, for example, mothering requires practice).
Carson, for
me, is someone who acts as mother to her own body of work. Her close connection
to her texts is often explicitly stated. She has a stake in her poetry, in her
prose, in her unconventional bodies of work like Nox (2009) and Float
(2016). But don’t all writers (and mothers) have a close connection to their
creations? Yes, of course – but Carson’s writing, I suppose, feels as if it
took some effort to give up, as if she waited until it matured before sending it
out into the world, and continues to feel some worry over how it might fare out
there.
Perhaps I’m
projecting here. I certainly feel this way about my work. I often don’t want to
give it up, if only because there’s no telling where it will go, and with what
or who it will interact with. Writing as Other means that readers often look
for you in your work, as they can’t
separate your position in the world from the positions of those present in your
writing. This can be good, or bad, or both – but above all, it is worrying.
Like a photograph wherein you are the one asked to assert your pose, that
moment of panic leads to retroactive who-am-I statements and ultimately sends
you into somewhat of an existential crisis – at least until you take a seat and
awkwardly smile for the camera.
Maybe
Carson’s statement on her own gender identity stuck out to me because she seems
to unhindered by this seemingly necessary crisis. She seems comfortable with
the knowledge that she may be viewed, in terms of gender, as both, neither, or
some other entirely. She floats in that ocean of Otherness without fear of
being dragged under. Her work buoys her, work which reflects her stunning
inability to conform to conventions of poetry, essay, novel, and beyond. To
reach that level of self-acceptance seems impossible to me at times, but to see
someone like Carson, in all her gendered invocations, reach a point in her life
where she can address her long history of identity in a single breath is as
comforting to me as the presence of any mother has or ever has been.
Terry Abrahams lives and writes in Toronto. His work
has been a part of Acta Victoriana, (parenthetical), and The Puritan, among others. Find him on
Twitter at @trabrahams.
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