Grenade
08.4.2012
Grenade
"Things that are distressing to see"
--The Pillow Book by Sei Shōnagon
The look on his mouth
wreathed in berries
a smiling sleepy cat
body turned in his chair
leaning into his teenage daughter
curly-haired, lapping it up
shutting out the mother
bitter look around her mouth
father/husband's two faces--
sensual for the daughter
blank for her mother--
a terrible thing to watch.
As if the mother gave birth
to her own younger self
('Rarus,' 'an abortive child,' or 'a womb,'
the womb of the Corn-mother
from which the corn sprang)
or the secret feminine soul
of her mate,
and he loves only her young, fresh flesh
or perhaps only himself in her, his own inner girl,
and abandons the soul of his wife.
I try to engage her in talk, about the taste of the cider,
she smiles but cannot rise
out of hell.
Kore in the poppy fields
picking the scarlet soporifics,
his chariot drawn by black horses
roaring down the chasm that opens
daughter snatched from mother, de meter,
down into his dark kingdom.
She grieves
and the earth is barren;
apples do not grow,
cider does not flow.
Pomegranate, grenade:
the food of the dead.
Lord of the Underworld
knows only his own desire,
and they are both--
Kore who cries out
Demeter who rages--
his victims.
The father unfolds his length, leaves
the restaurant, daughter close, they stroll
side by side along the rue Vieille du Temple.
Drained, hollow, the mother
can barely rise from her seat
and follows far behind.
I want to cry out to him.
I want to embrace her.
Who will send a message to Hades?
Who will offer the mother blessing?
Who will deliver the daughter from hell
and make the earth fruitful again?
Demeter, Hades, Kore, anima, family, men and women in Paris Life
Reader Comments (10)
what brilliant writing. I feel like i've been kicked in the gut, as powerful art should do.
Dear Kaaren and Richard:
To be back here at Paris Play is a coming home in a sense. The pathos of a little "family" scene depicted through your poet eyes. To see your stone faces so alive in photographs. To be with you in Paris again is such a joy. It is funny when I give myself permission to create work I want to be here with you in Paris. When I am scrambling to keep sane and make ends meet, it is difficult to enter the world of Paris Play. Your city calls to me, but I never been except in my imagination.
When Dawna told me that she would be with you soon in Paris my heart leapt. There was a vicarious thrill in even the thought of going to Paris.
I am "the daughter from Hell" and you "make life (my) fruitful again."
Forgive me for being away for so long.
Love Always, Jon
Wow, Polly. There is probably nothing that artists and writers love hearing more than a knockout comment like this.
Deep gratitude and love from us,
Kaaren (& Richard)
P.S. Feeling very close to Berkeley lately with Varya and Charles here, and will see John next week.
Jon!
Thank you so much for your warmth. Dawna and I were talking about you (with love!) the other night. I am sure you will get to Paris one of these days. And I think no day should go by in which you don't write.
I know exactly what you mean by "the daughter from hell." Sons suffer as much as daughters when fathers aren't around, or are too present, but lack boundaries.
I never feel you're "away," just busy. I miss seeing you at s.t.a.r.s, so you will have to come to Paris!
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Powerfully wrought imagery, Kaaren!
This latest act in your play made me think of Woody Allen, because I so wanted to loathe "Midnight in Paris" as I have so many of his more recent movies where the man's self-absorbed voice rings too loudly. Yet, how captivating I found that movie despite this same sort of man who, likewise, knew no personal boundaries. Maybe Allen's ability to transcend his demented ego is more related to the enormity of any American trying to capture an essence of Paris!!
Love,
Scott
Dear Scott,
Thank you so much. You've made an unexpected analogy with Woody Allen and his daughter, now his wife, and it's a good one.
I had the same resistance initially to Midnight in Paris, but found it charming and funny, what he does best. And you're right, it is no easy thing for an American to capture some slice of the times in Paris and Woody did it, so imaginatively.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
A grenade to the heart and you two have captured it with power and eloquence.
Brilliant.
Send this to The New Yorker?
xo
S
Dearest Suki,
From your mouth to the gods' and goddesses' ears! Thank you so much. We'll think about where we might send it...
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
What an absolutely stunning poem (and images)... and so poignant. Together you've beautifully captured the pain and unseemliness of the situation, and its mythical echoes. A grenade, indeed... but poetry like this can also serve as a grenade to shake things up and break them apart so we can see the truth inside. Brava/bravo!
love,
dawna
Dawna,
Thank you so much from both of us! You probably know that "grenade" in French means pomegranate, one of those mysterious links between language and myth that we so relish.
It was absolutely magical seeing you here in Paris.
And Marley says Miaow.
Much love,
Kaaren & Richard