One of my favorite poems by Olds is below. The first time I encountered it back in the early 1990s, I was blown away. My reaction can be summed up like this: "Wait! You can write about THAT?" This little poem convinced me to become a poet, because it was so . . . out there and wonderful at the same time.
Sharon Olds give readers an encounter with . . .
The Pope's Penis
by: Sharon Olds
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dimness and the heat--and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
You may be offended by this poem. That's okay. If you don't like it, don't read it. It's that simple. You don't have to burn any books or go to some kind of meeting where you're crusading to rid the world of pornography. Just politely close the book or log off this page and don't return to it. Period.
Olds certainly is being humorous with her words here. However, she's also providing commentary on how women have been subjugated by certain Christian denominations (including Catholicism). And she's celebrating the sacredness of the body, in all of its uncontrollable splendor. Even popes aren't immune to the physical cravings of the flesh. Sharon Olds finds nothing shameful in sexuality. In fact, I'd argue that she, in her own way, is saying that sexuality is one of God's gifts and should be exalted rather than relegated to the confessional.
That's my poetic sermon for today. I'm climbing off my soapbox now.
I'm currently in between teaching semesters. That gives me some time to breathe and relax and catch up on some much-needed sleep. (In a week, I start teaching again until the end of June, so I'll be back to my neurotic self by Monday.) I'm attempting to kickstart my writing, as well. I've gotten lazy about sitting down with my journal and pen. Not because I have nothing to say about life in the United States. It's just this inability to know where to start.
Do I focus on poetry, and ignore politics? Do I pretend that the President 47 isn't accepting 400-million-dollar airplanes as a bribe from Qatar? Do I tell cute stories about my puppy and ignore the Ice Agents arresting and deporting innocent people? Don't get me started on tax cuts for billionaires.
As a writer, I simply can't choose where to shine my spotlight. It's exhausting. When I sit down to work on a new poem, I have to give myself ten minutes to vent and bitch on the page. Only after I've exorcised my anger and sadness can I begin to think in poetic terms. Otherwise, all you'd probably be getting from me is one word repeated over and over and over and over. (The word begins with an "f," ends with a "k," and isn't "folk" or "funk.")
All that being said, I don't have a lot on my mind at the moment. Went out for drinks and KFC with some friends this evening. I may have imbibed a little too much, as I can barely keep my eyes open.
Saint Marty did write a poem for tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Sit in a comfy chair (with or without a glass of wine) and listen to jazz or classical music for fifteen to twenty minutes. Have a notebook to jot down images or ideas that come to mind as you listen to the music. Write a poem about something you thought of while you listened. If you like, keep the music on while you write.
Ornithology
by: Martin Achatz
I don't practice poetry the way
I practiced scales on the piano
or parallel parking when I was
learning to drive--no tests to pass
or licenses to carry to prove
I know trochaic tetrameter, no, just
an impossible impulse to chase
words the way my Aussie chases
finches in my backyard, body
a rubber band, snout threshing
the air back, up, forth, down
until she catches something in her
eager jaws--maybe a feather small
as an eyelash--tosses it, shakes
her head, wrings every drop of flight
from its downy barb until death
arrives the way it did for Keats:
too soon, leaving behind flocks
of poems wheeling in the blue
lungs of heaven like hungry gulls.
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