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Overview
In poems that balance realistic and surrealistic narratives, irony and sentiment, Calbert records the journey of a woman reeling from a number of losses-her youth, the death of a close friend, religious faith-toward love and marriage. These poems speak directly of and from the self, and in so doing echo Whitman's conversational grace. Calbert writes an updated feminist song of herself, a song that celebrates the pleasure of being the modern "woman as wild card, as other/than wife, mother, lover, friend," the woman who delights in forging herself with wit and wisdom.
The title poem, "Bad Judgment," shows how the little lies we tell ourselves and others can create lives of bad faith, and as much as she would like to be consoled for her losses, reassured about the permanence of her recompenses, Calbert does not seek the easy balm of dogma. Instead of grace or God, per se, she suggests, we have perspective. And Calbert shows that we are blessed, in our quest for simplifying principles, to discover the exceptional.
Cathleen Calbert is the author of one previous collection of poetry, Lessons in Space, published by the UniversityPress of Florida in 1997. She was a recipient of The Nation Discovery Prize in 1991, the Gordon Barber Memorial Award of The Poetry Society of America in 1994, and a writing fellowship from The Rhode Island State Council for the Arts in 1995. Her poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry 1995, Feminist Studies, The Hudson Review, The Paris Review, Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where she is an Associate Professor at Rhode Island College.
"Between 'Don't try anything!' and 'She'll try anything!' fall (or rise: depending on her mood) Cathy Calbert's startling new poems, so cool, so speculative, so disabused, so warm. Our colloquial
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781889330242 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Sarabande Books |
| Publication date: | 02/01/1998 |
| Edition description: | 1 ED |
| Pages: | 72 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.30(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
When Nights Were Full of
Sex and Churches
Three chimes, and it's everyone I've ever slept with,
even once, even just barely, swept free into the light
of a cloudless moon, waving, hi, hi. They are drunk, pale,
silly upside down, their shoes dancing above their heads.
These many men are smiling, looking down, seeing me.
I can hear the happy clatter of their dangling genitals.
But why can't I see a cow with pretty eyes, a gold chicken
in a peasant sky? Why can't I be that red-haired woman
sleeping in Chagall's heavenly tree? Then I could dream
of wedding veils, floating higher, turning blue
in a world made of colors and marital sex, happiness,
breasts painted into big circles, childlike hands at case.
In my night sky, I have only men, harmonizing:
There was a serpent who loved to sing, there was,
there was, hiss hiss. Thus, he forsook his serpenting
because he was in love, he was. Finished, they blow kisses
through transparent lips as though they have given me
something at last, but at the sound of midnight horns,
they leave as spooks do: easily. I open a real window,
calling after them: I remember. I still have a red dress
hanging behind the sheaves of blue gauze in my closet.
Chapter Two
Trinity
Woman as wild card, as other
than wife, mother, lover, friend,
than the ones you've fucked or never wanted to fuck,
I am thesingle woman as dinner guest,
wondrous, lovely anomaly, odd woman out,
sole, solo, solitaire, night's queen;
unescorted, unchaperoned, unaccompanied
(unhusbanded, unasked, unwooed), vestal, heart-whole,
gendered, gentle woman, just a joker
in the living room, on the balcony, by the begonias,
drinking couples' wine, scotch, vodka, strawberry tea,
eating couples' clams, linguine, lobster, lettuce leaves,
friendly to the wives, liking the wives
(having been a wife, wanting to be a wife again),
wanting the wives to like me because I like them
(and because I want to be invited back again),
too friendly to the men, liking the men
(having had a man, wanting to have a man again
before I die and am placed alone, cold, in that last
deep bed of this shared green world; that is,
wanting to get off, get even, get lucky, get laid)
though I remain unnameable, unapproachable, untouchable,
the best you could have, boys, but not quite worth it,
after all, my friends, not quite worth it at all in the end.
So for a short space, let me stand for "space" Let me be
the space in your lives. A portal, an opening, a break.
Call me "O." Fill in the gap. Pencil me in the big zero.
Then flatten this figure into three planes (use your right
hands, please, for the left sting with wedding rings),
and, oh, for a space, let us triangulate:
all you wives chopping, frying, mincing, sighing, talking,
laughing, lacking that essential mystery, and omitted,
I'm sad to say, momentarily, discarded as you are
by all you men patting my knee, back, arm, face,
offering things to eat, drink, smoke, try, taste,
applauding my hair, socks, dog, blouse, name,
asking: do I like to ski, cook, read, rent movies?
Would I go for a walk, a swim, a ride, for coffee?
To see the countryside, local color, compost heap?
Privately expressing concern, interest, curiosity:
my job, my dog, my cacti, cough, calligraphy.
What do I lack, desire, do without, need?
Telling me (confidentially) how you would love
to come to town, come visit, come see me
if only you could find time, make space, get free.
Yes, my dears, had we but world enough,
and time and again I leave as I came, sexy to men
because I'm not sleeping with any of them,
going home alone while all the husbands sleep
with all the wives, wives with their husbands,
the whole world falling to a lazy, angry sleep,
"unfulfilled," fucked up, fantasizing,
in each other's arms, legs, plans, schemes,
as the stars get it up to shine once again
for you and for me (forgive our trespasses),
and the crickets count out a beat to our lives,
and I kiss my dog, who sleeps at my feet.
Chapter Three
Beyond the Power of Positive Thinking
I am letting myself have a well puppy,
my mother's blood pressure decrease,
and the engine in my car run easily.
I've stopped holding on to negative energy
and no longer need academic poverty.
I am radiant and free, calm and serene.
It's okay to have a green Mercedes.
I can accept a green Mercedes.
A green Mercedes is okay with me.
We are living in a land of plenty.
There's enough for everybody
if we all rechannel our energy,
so I'm setting free the seven hearts
within to ensure my rapture and give
me enough divinity for everything.
It's up to us. If we can just keep clear,
keep clean, keep concentrating, we will
never even need to stop breathing.
Chapter Four
The Woman Who Loved Things
A woman finally learned to love things, so things learned
to love her too as she pressed herself to their shining sides,
their porous surfaces. She smoothed along walls until walls
smoothed along her as well, a joy, a climax, this flesh
against plaster, the sweet suck of consenting molecules.
Sensitive men and women became followers, wrapping
themselves in violet, pasting her image over their hearts,
pressing against walls until walls came to appreciate
differences in molecules. This became a worship.
They became a love. A church. A cult. A way of being.
Of course, it had to happen: the woman's love kept growing
until she was loved by trees and appliances, from toasters
to natural obstacles, until her ceiling shook loose to send kisses,
sheets wound themselves between her legs, and floorboards
broke free of their nails, straining their lengths over her sleeping.
She awoke and drove out of town alone. In love, rocks flew
through her windows, then whole hillsides slid, loosening
with desire. The car shattered its shaft to embrace her,
but she ran from the wreckage, calling all the sweet things
as she waited in a field of strangely complacent daisies.
She spoke of love until losing her breath, and the things
trilled to feel that loss too, sighing in thingness. She fell
down, and the things fell down around her. She cried
Christ! and the things cried Christ! in their thing-hearts
until everything living and unliving wonderfully collided.
Chapter Five
My Dead Boyfriend
I hoped no one would notice anything
as we toured gay Paris,
but I had no need to worry.
My companions didn't know him well,
couldn't compare this to that:
the frigid skin, stiff expression,
his arm frozen around my waist.
People notice less than you think.
I was grateful for the temporary
reanimation of my sweetheart, a final holiday,
though his face stayed gray, unhealthy looking,
and he didn't especially feel up
to visiting any famous French cemeteries.
He preferred clubbing, blowing smoke rings,
ordering drinks, and dancing slowly.
When we made love, he was hard as a rock
but couldn't come, so he satisfied me
and left me feeling a little empty.
The last time he climbed on my body,
I felt a shudder, then the cool semen
finally pumping before he seized up
permanently. On his way to the grave,
he'd wanted to give me something: a baby.
I appreciated these inhuman exertions
and stroked the cold, clenched hands
as he relaxed into the corpse he needed to be.
I could feel his seed inside,
like tears of ice melting.
But what had he given me?
When your man is dead,
can he create something new and living?
No, I would bear a half-dead baby,
whose cheeks stayed rosy
though his eyes iced blue, lips rigid
at my swollen, hungry breasts
as I sang him songs
of the spider and the rain and the sun,
then tucked him in the icebox
to keep him cozy while I cried
myself to sleep, thinking somewhere
mothers are strolling in the park,
not dreaming in the dark mid-morning,
somewhere men don't need to be
resurrected daily, babies laugh and breathe,
and women aren't the only ones living.
Chapter Six
Bad Judgment
It's on the line,
the sun's in your eyes,
the time you thought it would be all right
to go for a drive alone at night,
he didn't mean it,
he'll never do it again,
you can trust him,
I think she's really a friend,
I bet the child will be all right where he is,
it doesn't get dark until late,
I'll take the red-eye,
have the cheese steak,
you keep track of the receipts.
we'll only meet for coffee,
I'll weigh less in a couple weeks,
I'll take the job,
I'll marry him,
I'll see my mother in the spring,
no hurry,
I'm not even sleepy,
I can drive all night, don't worry,
shall we get some cigarettes?
How about chocolate martinis?
Is the water supposed to be green?
It's all right, I'm not ovulating,
it's all right, I'm clean,
it's all right, I haven't been with anyone else lately,
having a baby will bring us closer together,
I can stand another cup of coffee,
let's get the puppy,
let's get the aquarium,
let's get another puppy,
I think that's as big as a dog like that gets,
he's just lonely,
why don't we not plan anything?
If the book's good, they'll publish it eventually,
why don't we paint the whole thing?
We could knock clown a wall,
we could dig up these trees,
I think I'll wait to have a baby,
I bet these sores don't mean anything,
my doctor knows what's best for me,
my dentist knows what's best for me,
my therapist knows I'm trying,
I feel I'll never lose you, we'll keep writing,
you're sensitive, that's why you do these things,
I'll just watch a little TV,
I'll talk to him, but I won't say anything,
we'll talk, but we won't do anything,
if I tell him how I feel,
if he tells me how he feels,
I want him to be honest with me,
I only want to know the truth,
not knowing hurts worse,
henna just makes your hair shiny,
it's too overcast to burn,
he's staying for the children,
she doesn't understand him,
they're not even sleeping together,
everybody parks here,
they never ticket,
they almost never tow,
there's an undertow
but you hardly feel it,
this will pinch a little,
this might smart,
you'll only feel a tug,
are you crazy, they love company!
I don't think she meant anything.
why don't you go talk to her?
I bet the two of you can straighten it out.
if I were you, I'd leave him,
I'd perm my hair,
I'd get that outfit,
I only want what's best for you,
I know you do,
I love you too.
What People are Saying About This
A great, despairing compassion underlies Cathleen Calbert's view of our rotten world. These are truly extraordinary poems.