Encounters with a full moon and my father this weekend–interesting that the Greek ‘men’ Scholars Aristotle’s Poetics [maybe], Euripides, [did I spell that right?] Plato, yadda yadda…dadda dadda…except Sappho wrote about the Oedipal complex. Not a ‘mum’…all about the ma and son not a mum about daughters and their dads…but of course the ancient western Greek civilization lived in love of Greek tragedy and comedy, which worshipped only and above all beauty — and birthing with blood is all ugly and murky and dirty so, that means also leaving out the father-daughter relationship in stories, myths etc, well, maybe I’m being a bit too harsh. There was Persephone, Penelope, and Hera and Medusa!! Of course! Then a millennia later, we witness something between Gertrude and Hamlet…a component of the thing…which makes it much more obvious. Shakespeare…well, he got it with Juliet and Ophelia and Cordelia of King Lear. Oh, I mustn’t forget A Winter’s Tale as well because you know if he dislikes the mother then he secretly is ashamed of his daughter. But really, it didn’t get down down down to the suicides of this century of what is closer in proximity to this time/space…where we encounter Sylvia’s Daddy and well, maybe Anne Sexton as well but she’s not so obvious at first. There may have been tidbits with Aphra Behn and other female writers over the past thousand years such as Virginia Woolf. It all comes back to Nature and Birthing and that triangle of ma and pa–the more extreme–the potential for the more interesting I suppose.
Daddy, Daddy, you do not do,
you do not do, any more black shoe,
in which I have lived like a foot,
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breath or Achooooo!
If I’ve killed one man, i’ve killled two–
the vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
seven years, if you want to know…. SP.
[but yes, I’ve got shotguns too.]
You know, its funny, I saw it; I questioned it; I went there anyway and I got exactly what I knew as a 5 year old. Too many times in tears that it was too similar to what I grew up with–so obvious. Anyway, I caught it pretty quick and I’m tired of hiding that every man I get to know has to live with my father. Oh dear. Not good for them and not good for me.
The problem is that we have to keep going back into what I call ‘the shit’ others refer to it as a swamp or the nebulous or whatever. If we are to be alive we cannot sit on the periphery and pretend that we are poets. We have to re-build ourselves despite how much we know and watch it get torn back down again. If you’re good at self-protection you won’t go there but that’s also shallow and it isn’t really living. I’ve got 20 books of poetry in me, waiting. Just a matter of execution, ejaculation etc. Who says I’m not angry or bitter and that’s not a bad thing. It’s just as good as being shallow or being happy and attending to self-care.
Here’s the Daddy Poem I wrote [as an exercise] in Creative Writing class in 2003 w/ Richard Teleky @ York University.
Daddy II (inspired by Sylvia Plath)
Daddy, I have had to kill you
chopped your liver
ate your ‘right’ conservative
drunk your maroon brown
the little that ever was
I put the blood
not the wine in the golden grail cup
that I found
while I lay hiding
under your bed.
A devil’s persimmon and rosemary
the desert I’ve acquired in jest.
I used your hunting rifle
stood behind you
shot you first, in the nape of the neck
then turned you around
in your favorite
navy blue sofa chair
and stood opposite you.
I took aim and shot again
straight for your heart—-
whack and thud.