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April 2005
Inarticularity
Inarticularity
The cat’s got my tongue
I gave it to her
It was giving me gip
Didn’t need it no more
Wrenched it plain out
With an oven glove and skewer
The hollow feels warm
Like some exotic liqueur
I’m feeling so peaceful,
A skinny–girl Buddha
The thoughts have closed down
Each breath is a prayer
Inarticularity 2
Words had failed me for too long. When they did come out they
were frayed and worn, run down and faded. I met a woman in a park
once, and she told me that this was the 2nd day in 6 years that
she’d spoken. She said it was okay at first, got harder in the
middle — then people just forgot about her, which was what she
wanted, I guess. She was a broken woman, trying to mind her
tongue, and instead she got to hold it for a while. She still
looked a little crazy to me, but what did I know, shiksa from the
suburbs that I am.
And down the line a little, now I get it. And even though the
squeaking wheel gets all the grease, it doesn’t matter — like I
need more grease. So I let all of them fly, and off they landed,
to cause earth tremors in Guatemala.
In the beginning, my rib cage strained with the weight of all the
things unsaid, but soon, and amazingly, speaking stopped being
something I didn’t do and silence became something I did. I could
hear the softness of my internal hum and that was enough. Maybe
I’ll return to words, like the lady in the park. But maybe I’ll
learn a new language and I’ll live as free as my tongue.
Lisa D'Onofrio
Poet's comment: Two poems inspired by Bronwen's piece, Broken. The first is more traditional, a black look at being silenced, with the narrator paradoxically taking control by giving up with communication. The second is an extension of the theme, using a similiar style to Basketcases 1 and 2. Bronwen's piece made me think about 'scratching' i.e. scratching the surface, which led to records and being recorded, which led to voice.
Basketcase 2
it started with sharp pencils and I got no joy from that/ so then
I tried a needle but that was no good, pin pricks/ and didn’t go
deep enough dots not lines I needed lines/ so then went on to
compass but I couldn’t drag it across,
you see, it could only dig and I didn’t want to dig I wanted/ to
cut across, in
long fluid lines, I wanted to create lines, etch them in, cross
hatch them/ and make them flow, I wanted to see the blood bubble
out I wanted the line of grey to turn red and then finally white/
rosered rosewhite mirror mirror the shoe never fit/ I wanted to
raise my shirt and press myself on a white white wall and print
myself on it, red white, reddy rust against/ white, I wanted to
print myself, / The wall absorbing and repelling the lines stark
and fresh/ I wanted to leave an impression/
sessions lasted five minutes or less, they were intense a burst
of activity in an otherwise dull and protracted and tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow life a flurry
an action a swift and easy slash a release and all the while I
imagined my body against the cool surface of the wall, if I
pressed hard enough I would become the cool surface of the wall
hidden behind the wardrobe, become the wall flat and simple and
undemanding
Lisa D'Onofrio
Poet's comment: This piece began with me wanting to continue the themes brought up by Basketcase 1. I completed the words while Bronwen worked on the piece, and this process seemed to work for us. Previously we had discussed some ideas. I was thinking about skin and the way bodies hold memories, and I kept returning to the the phrase 'written on the body'.
This is a sequel to Basketcase 1