Myth of Arrival

Last night at work I walked about with a limp, bent almost double in pain. It is curious, pain simply is. It takes over our bodies much the same way the shamans of the far North allow spirits into theirs; an overwhelming experience where the ego is driven away, where there is nothing left of the soul but a blinding light. But, instead of divine conversations between the worlds, I was finding myself unable to stand due to a pulled muscle. A hazard of my work. Having bent in an odd way to help transfer a resident from bed to wheelchair my back gave out. It is odd to me that when we are healthy and far away from pain we make such a fuss over different types. Birthing pains, gun shot wounds, self-inflicted; as if any of it mattered.

This morning Eli (my brother and lead singer of the band The Monolators) sent me news that one of my favorite bands, Emm't Swank, was going to be coming together one last time for a benefit show. Like Eli, they are based in L.A. and it is with some sorrow that I cannot attend the party. Of the few times I visited my brother and Mary (my sister -in -law, drummer of the band and voice of Belle) and helped carry their amps for various shows (the gig at Mr. T's sticks in my mind) I had a blast and wish that somehow the distance between California and Michigan could be bridged a little more easier so I could see more of their shows … or any of their shows. I love The Monolators so very much.

Still, while time might be easily debated over beers we've yet to bend space and geography as easily (even with the help of Jack Daniels) so I must simply suggest to you all to check out these bands' up -coming tour dates and tell me how their shows went. I will on my back, heating pad up to 9 and listening to the soothing sounds of my lungs gurgling wetly. It sounds almost like a song.

From the back of the throat, phlegm or poem,
what we cough up is the same. Something hard
we find we cannot choke down. Hard, irksome
pain, you have become much like a barnyard
squeal, skin flick groan, slaughterhouse yap; the marred
bit of the song we skip over in haste.
Anything than to listen to those scarred
voices sing. Better to escape shame faced,
guts a pitapat, than to stay debased
by the things we have no control over.
Here is my throat, my O of mouth, the taste
of wind rising up, filling the puncture
wound of my chest; gun shot like doors, a new
doorway hole that the dark wind whispers through.

I was reading a Spring 2003 issue of the Scandinavian Review and there was an article on the Swedish poet Göran Sonnevi's¹ book length poem Mozarts Tredje Hjärna or Mozart's Third Brain (pages 63 - 68). It had been translated by Rika Lesser,² but apparently the book has yet to make an appearance on bn.com or amazon. The most I could find was an article in from Triquarterly on December 31, 1999.

I find the poem both difficult and delightful. Difficult in that Sonnevi tackles the BIG issues: genocide, lover, death. But there is such a flight of fancy, so much to delight here that it allows me to go along with the ride. If anyone knows where I can get my hands on either the original or the translation, please let me know. Here are three small sections of the 144. What do you think?

XVII

Every word carries
all its despair
all its joy
We carry one another

LX

With V I talked about the young heifers in the meadow
As a child she was a shepherdess, tending cows and sheep
She spoke with expertise about the ages of calves When
I said one of them was a beauty she
replied: They are all beautiful!

………………………………………….

At Digerhuvudet on Faro she walked away alone
along the white rubblestone shore, her brown shawl
swept around her head, an old woman, a figure of pain
I also walked away, but in the other direction, in the blinding
light from the stones, the sea, below attacking terns
When I came back to the group I saw her
She showed me her find, a clump of moss
the size of a fingertip, gleaming
silver I showed her mine: a coral shaped
like a clam shell, petrified,
four hundred million years old
All we did not talk about What came after
the dictatorship The conflict of pain What
"the national" is, if other than a fiction
And what in that case this fiction
means I do not know

LXXXIV

Mozart of Pain Madness's Mozart Mozart sticking
out his tongue My dance Straight through all
the brain's walls In that which is generalized
connection Epileptically Calmed

I'm thinking about her, who listened to music
to soothe the twitching in her face
Now I see that face Wholly calm

1. Sonnevi, born in Lund, Sweden on October 3, 1939, has published fourteen individual books of poems in addition to three collections. He has translated the poetry of Ezra Pound, Paul Celan, Osip Mandelstam and others into Swedish. [back]
2. As the author of three books of poetry: Lesser has published five books of poetry in translation: Claes Andersson, Gunnar Ekelöf, Hermann Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Göran Sonnevi. In 1982 she received the Landon Prize for her rendition of Ekelöf’s Guide to the Underworld. [back]

I.
How do you find yourself in ghost stories?
Unwelcome love, the sea eats the milk-pearls
you placed on your breasts. Gobbles your gypsies'
sea-skirt; your shark-tooth necklace; your blue swirls
tattooed on your back. It chews it up, hurls
about, lets you tremble. Unwelcome love,
you are a ghost to me take your sea-girl's
skin out upon the waves, sing, float above
the dark form that flits in the soft olive,
aquamarine, milk blue. This is a ghost
story. Unwelcome love, now you sing of
blame, you sing of terrible blame, almost
like love, you sing of the shark, the dreadful
maw that will gut you, mouthful by mouthful.

II.
Press your mouth up to mine. These words displease
but its all we got. I am salt, blue mists
covering dune grass. Dunes are the junkie's
eyelashes. You are drunk. Our kiss consists
of your tongue in my mouth. Fat tongue that twists
in the wet air. Your mouth is a squandered
coast, a lone girl walking toward us. This tryst
is odd, you would never allow a third
to join us, another voice that yammered
your name. Yammering. Once I kissed the ghost
of a drowned girl. You are not her. No word
or kiss can bring her back. You, a bone coast
and I? Something simple you will forget,
like tar fog's chill or a love dog's regret.

III.
How do you find yourself in ghost song?
Listen to all of this, every ghastly
detail. How you rose to that refrain, long
wet hair dragging behind you. Your grisly
wound, large pieces missing. How your ghostly
song sings; there are the three men, how they lug
you, all thrashing of arms, legs, the ugly
O of your mouth, over the side. Their smug
laughter. Their fingers bent, their long knives dug
into your skin dark pink lines. Now you stare,
dripping. Your blue lips part, a kiss. You shrug
as if we're not bound to our past, despair
by it. Our lips touch, your girl shark claws, thin
fingers, press deep, searching, pass through my skin.

IV.
It is not this kiss that binds them here. Not
their lost bodies, you see, that is crucial
to keep them; to say, if I had known what
it's like … No kiss can fill them with lustful
warmth. I ran my tongue along each dreadful
gill. Kissed where the skin webbed the hand into
fin. Her breath gave off a girl-curd, carnal
stench. I licked right where the shark teeth bit through
her side. Where ta'awah, the old Hebrew
word for lust, was cut before they threw her
overboard. It's not this kiss they want, you
see, but the breath that came with the rapture
when you said, if I'd known what it's like, dear,
I'd have let you take me right now, right here.

V.
How do you find yourself in ghost stories?
When a lover is faithless let the kiss
change, as deep seas change as distant bodies
pass through them. When the lover is remiss
or does nothing let the winds stir, the hiss
of wave grow loud, sky dark. Somewhere out there
Sa'me, the shark, turns. The soprano, Miss
Shoujyo, in white face, sings the prayer
for the dead. Her gown torn, her long black hair
sticky with sweat, she calls Sa'me to her.
This is the ghost story. Roughly, the air
changes, the waves, the song. My false lover,
you have betrayed me … she turns on the stage,
naked with nothing but her teenage rage.

VI.
A plea heard, cut off, like mad. Guttural
distress in the fog. Some depraved rapture.
Raving. Someone in the grizzle-drizzle.
Some thing out there yowling out her vulgar
garbled mouthfuls. Ghost girl. Still, I shiver
each time you touch me. Passing through me
like ice. The way the dead always shudder
when they embrace us with blue lips milky
with lust. They say death turns lust nakedly
urgent. Who still cries like that? Your mouth swung
open. The coast swung shut. Who would blindly
follow to the root of your throat? My tongue
lost in the mist. Someone gives a cry, distress.
Cuts off, cries, cut off, cries. This is endless.

When is too much too much? How long should a story go until the audience cries "enough!" and stomps their feet? Wagner never knew when to stop and so most people find his long, dull bits long … and dull. Wagner!The opera you hate most,/ the worst music ever invented, Philip Levine cries in What Work Is. Bless the French for coming up with a word used only to indicate the pain and torture of having to sit through long, boring bits of opera music, waiting for the good stuff to occur.

I write seven sonnets and wonder if I am committing the same sin? Is it better to say what you need to once and stop, or create a refrain and spiral your song into layers? If this were a dance remix then each sonnet would be a slightly different version of the same, creating a psychedelic whole you could dance to. But it isn't a dance song, it is seven sonnets written over the last three or four days. Where are my DJs? Where is the laser light show? Who will wear the thigh-high go-go boots and dance all night? Where should we go from here?

I
How do you find yourself in ghost stories?
Unwelcome love, the sea eats the milk-pearls
you placed on your breasts. Gobbles your gypsies'
sea-skirt; your shark-tooth necklace; your blue swirls
tattooed on your back. It chews it up, hurls
about, lets you tremble. Unwelcome love,
you are a ghost to me take your sea-girl's
skin out upon the waves, sing, float above
the dark form that flits in the soft olive,
aquamarine, milk blue. This is a ghost
story. Unwelcome love, now you sing of
blame, you sing of terrible blame, almost
like love, you sing of the shark, the dreadful
maw that will gut you, mouthful by mouthful.

II.
Press your mouth up to mine. These words displease
but its all we got. I am salt, blue mists
covering dune grass. Dunes are the junkie's
eyelashes. You are drunk. Our kiss consists
of your tongue in my mouth. Fat tongue that twists
in the wet air. Your mouth is a squandered
coast, a lone girl walking toward us. This tryst
is odd, you would never allow a third
to join us, another voice that yammered
your name. Yammering. Once I kissed the ghost
of a drowned girl. You are not her. No word
or kiss can bring her back. You, a bone coast
and I? Something simple you will forget,
like tar fog's chill or a love dog's regret.

III.
It is not this kiss that binds them here. Not
their lost bodies, you see, that is crucial
to keep them; to say, if I had known what
it's like … No kiss can fill them with lustful
warmth. I ran my tongue along each dreadful
gill. Kissed where the skin webbed the hand into
fin. Her breath gave off a girl-curd, carnal
stench. I licked right where the shark teeth bit through
her side. Where ta'awah, the old Hebrew
word for lust, was cut before they threw her
overboard. It's not this kiss they want, you
see, but the breath that came with the rapture
when you said, if I'd known what it's like, dear,
I'd have let you take me right now, right here.

IV.
How do you find yourself in ghost stories?
When a lover is faithless let the kiss
change, as deep seas change as distant bodies
pass through them. When the lover is remiss
or does nothing let the winds stir, the hiss
of wave grow loud, sky dark. Somewhere out there
Sa'me, the shark, turns. The soprano, Miss
Shoujyo, in white face, sings the prayer
for the dead. Her gown torn, her long black hair
sticky with sweat, she calls Sa'me to her.
This is the ghost story. Roughly, the air
changes, the waves, the song. My false lover,
you have betrayed me … she turns on the stage,
naked with nothing but her teenage rage.

V.
This shall be our song, it will tell every
ghastly detail. Everything. How I sat
in the room, gas making the air heavy
with grave melody. How you rose to that
refrain, dripping, pieces missing, your flat
dark eyes taking this all in. How you crooned,
filling in all the missing pieces, at
once both dreadful and … no, the gaping wound
said it all. How you stood on stage, festooned
only in skin and shark teeth. The photo
I have of you affirms that. Your voice, tuned
in as if from the grave, your soprano
grave, flush of your cheeks, trying, unwelcome
lover, your sea has made me dim, dull, numb.

VI.
You talk about hating this photograph.
I see that. It's a blur. My stove filling
the room with gas, making every damn laugh
high, odd, terse. The camera's laughter flooding
my head, the men, the body struggling.
Here is the old camera. Here is the tug
boat, ropes, laughing as they lug you, thrashing
legs, arms, O of mouth, overboard. Their smug
grins. They took photographs. The camera dug
into you, cut into your skin dark pink
lines, held you, let you drop. Now you just shrug
as if we are not bound to our past, stink
with it. Gas stinks, fire works. You run shark claws
here, there. We kiss but none of this can pause.

VII.
A plea heard, cut off, like mad. Guttural
distress in the fog. Some depraved rapture.
Raving. Someone in the grizzle-drizzle.
Some thing out there yowling out her vulgar
garbled mouthfuls. Ghost girl. Still, I shiver
each time she touches me. Passing through me
like ice. The way the dead always shudder
when they embrace us with blue lips milky
with lust. They say death turns lust nakedly
urgent. Who still cries like that? Her mouth swung
open. The coast swung shut. Who would blindly
follow to the root of her throat? My tongue
lost in the mist. Someone gives a cry, distress.
Cuts off, cries, cut off, cries. This is endless.

I.
Press your mouth up to mine. These words displease
but its all we got. I am salt, blue mists
covering dune grass. Dunes are the junkie's
eyelashes. You are drunk. Our kiss consists
of your tongue in my mouth. Fat tongue that twists
in the wet air. Your mouth is a squandered
coast, a lone girl walking toward us. This tryst
is odd, you would never allow a third
to join us, another voice that yammered
your name. Yammering. Once I kissed the ghost
of a drowned girl. You are not her. No word
or kiss can bring her back. You, a bone coast
and I? Something simple you will forget,
like tar fog's chill or a love dog's regret.

II.
It is not this kiss that binds them here. Not
their lost bodies, you see, that is crucial
to keep them; to say, "if I had known what
it's like …" No kiss can fill them with lustful
warmth. I ran my tongue along each dreadful
gill. Kissed where the skin webbed the hand into
fin. Her breath gave off a girl-curd, carnal
stench. I licked right where the shark teeth bit through
her side. Where "ta'awah," the old Hebrew
word for lust, was cut before they threw her
overboard. It's not this kiss they want, you
see, but the breath that came with the rapture
when you said, "if I'd known what it's like, dear,
I'd have let you take me right now, right here."

III.
You talk about hating this photograph.
I see that. It's a blur. My stove filling
the room with gas, making every damn laugh
high, odd, terse. The camera's laughter flooding
my head, the men, the body struggling.
Here is the old camera. Here is the tug
boat, ropes, laughing as they lug you, thrashing
legs, arms, O of mouth, overboard. Their smug
grins. They took photographs. The camera dug
into you, cut into your skin dark pink
lines, held you, let you drop. Now you just shrug
as if we are not bound to our past, stink
with it. Gas stinks, fireworks. You run shark claws
here, there. We kiss but does the photo pause?

IV.
A plea heard, cut off, like mad. Guttural
distress in the fog. Some depraved rapture.
Raving. Someone in the grizzle-drizzle.
Some thing out there yowling out her vulgar
garbled mouthfuls. Ghost girl. Still, I shiver
each time she touches me. Passing through me
like ice. The way the dead always shudder
when they embrace us with blue lips milky
with lust. They say death turns lust nakedly
urgent. Who still cries like that? Her mouth swung
open. The coast swung shut. Who would blindly
follow to the root of her throat? My tongue
lost in the mist. Someone gives a cry, distress.
Cuts off, cries, cut off, cries. This is endless.