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Tag: surrealism

  • Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck”

    Image a: Adrienne Rich  https://www.arche-editeur.com/auteur/rich-adrienne-4071 L’Arche
    Image: Adrienne Rich  – L’Arche

    Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck”

    Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” dramatizes the speaker’s metaphorical journey to explore the nature of a contrived, non-existent catastrophe. The speaker begins with a major historical and literary error: that there exists only one book of myths.

    Introduction and Text of “Diving into the Wreck”

    Adrienne Rich’s speaker in “Diving into the Wreck” claims that she has read “the book of myths.”  Note that by stating she has read “the book of myths,” she is implying that there is only one such book.

    This unfortunate beginning leaves the speaker’s thought processes nowhere to go to explore truth. By beginning with this claim, the speaker promises to take her listeners into sheer fantasy.

    While the speaker creates a fascinating, metaphorical undersea diving expedition, she also creates an abysmally inaccurate revisionist history.  Her so-called “wreck” becomes nothing but a straw man, built from the beginning claim of her having read “the book of myths.”

    Diving into the Wreck

    First having read the book of myths,
    and loaded the camera,
    and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
    I put on
    the body-armor of black rubber
    the absurd flippers
    the grave and awkward mask.
    I am having to do this
    not like Cousteau with his
    assiduous team
    aboard the sun-flooded schooner
    but here alone.

    There is a ladder.
    The ladder is always there
    hanging innocently
    close to the side of the schooner.
    We know what it is for,
    we who have used it.
    Otherwise
    it is a piece of maritime floss
    some sundry equipment.

    I go down.
    Rung after rung and still
    the oxygen immerses me
    the blue light
    the clear atoms
    of our human air.
    I go down.
    My flippers cripple me,
    I crawl like an insect down the ladder
    and there is no one
    to tell me when the ocean
    will begin.

    First the air is blue and then
    it is bluer and then green and then
    black I am blacking out and yet
    my mask is powerful
    it pumps my blood with power
    the sea is another story
    the sea is not a question of power
    I have to learn alone
    to turn my body without force
    in the deep element.

    And now: it is easy to forget
    what I came for
    among so many who have always
    lived here
    swaying their crenellated fans
    between the reefs
    and besides
    you breathe differently down here.

    I came to explore the wreck.
    The words are purposes.
    The words are maps.
    I came to see the damage that was done
    and the treasures that prevail.
    I stroke the beam of my lamp
    slowly along the flank
    of something more permanent
    than fish or weed

    the thing I came for:
    the wreck and not the story of the wreck
    the thing itself and not the myth
    the drowned face always staring
    toward the sun
    the evidence of damages
    worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
    the ribs of the disaster
    curving their assertion
    among the tentative haunters.

    This is the place.
    And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
    streams black, the merman in his armored body.
    We circle silently
    about the wreck
    we dive into the hold.
    I am she: I am he

    whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
    whose breasts still bear the stress
    whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
    obscurely inside barrels
    half-wedged and left to rot
    we are the half-destroyed instruments
    that once held to a course
    the water-eaten log
    the fouled compass

    We are, I am, you are
    by cowardice or courage
    the one who find our way
    back to this scene
    carrying a knife, a camera
    a book of myths
    in which
    our names do not appear.

    “There isn’t a single ‘book of myths’.”
             —Academy of American Poets

    Commentary on “Diving into the Wreck”

    Adrienne Rich did compose one poem that stands the test of time as a truly successful piece; that poem is “Living in Sin.”   Unfortunately, “Diving into he Wreck,” a poem much more widely anthologized than Rich’s fine, successful “Living in Sin,” does not attain the literary value of Rich’s one masterpiece.

    First Movement:  A Single Book of Myths?

    First having read the book of myths,
    and loaded the camera,
    and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
    I put on
    the body-armor of black rubber
    the absurd flippers
    the grave and awkward mask.
    I am having to do this
    not like Cousteau with his
    assiduous team
    aboard the sun-flooded schooner
    but here alone.

    Adrienne Rich’s speaker in “Diving into the Wreck” claims that she has read “the book of myths,” implying that there in only one “book of myths.”  The speaker does not identify any specific book of myths she had read; this omission is  significant.

    There are, in fact, many books of myths—Hindu, Buddhist, Judaic, Christian, Islamic, ancient Greek and Roman, and these identify only the five major religions and the two ancient cultural nationalities that have influenced Western civilization from its beginning through their books of myths.

    But this speaker is not addressing reality or anything that is actually within the bounds of the historical record; she is reporting from an adolescent hatred of her culture, supposedly struggling against an oppression that she has to create as a straw man in order to burn down.

    Thus this unnamed “book of myths” springs from the speaker’s imagination that has written a whole tome of nonsense targeting a phantom that her movement labels “The Patriarchy.”  Therefore anything written, especially by men, and more specifically by white men, is contained in this speaker’s concocted fantasy called (according to her truth) “the book of myths.”

    The speaker begins her journey to explore the metaphoric “wreck”  armed with the information that she has gathered from reading this non-existent but concocted book of myths.

    She takes a camera and a sharp knife with her. She dresses like a scuba-diver in “body-armor of black rubber / the absurd flipper / the grave and awkward mask.”  She does not explain why the “flipper” is “absurd,” or what is “grave and awkward” about the “mask.”

    Lest her listeners think she is really going on a Cousteau-like diving expedition, she disabuses them of that notion—she will not be aboard “the sun-flooded schooner” with “an assiduous team”; she will be here alone. She will remain in her library/study while examining further this unidentified, fictitious “book of myths.”

    The speaker creates an extended metaphor likening her scrutiny of the book of myths to diving down to a shipwreck. She compares herself to the divers who plunge deep below the Atlantic to gather information about the Titanic. 

    The speaker, therefore, has made a judgment about that book of myths; it is like a giant ocean liner that hit an iceberg and sank into the sea, and now this brave speaker will determine the cause and possibly salvage whatever she can from the wreck.

    Second Movement:  Guilty Ladders

    There is a ladder.
    The ladder is always there
    hanging innocently
    close to the side of the schooner.
    We know what it is for,
    we who have used it.
    Otherwise
    it is a piece of maritime floss
    some sundry equipment.

    The speaker notes the ladder, which she uses to descend into the water. The ladder “is always there / hanging innocently.” The comic effect jars the senses: what would a guilty ladder do? Hang guiltily, one supposes.

    Also rather comical, as well as substance-free, is the claim, “We know what it is for / we who have used it.” Whether they have used it or not, most conscious individuals over the age of two know what a ladder is for.

    The absurdities are beginning to accrue, damaging the credibility of this speaker’s ability to understand even the simplest of concepts, especially her remark about the ladder, which, if it were not used, would be merely, “a piece of maritime floss / some sundry equipment.” Of course, any equipment that has no specific use would be considered superfluous.

    Third Movement:    Descending into the Unknown

    I go down.
    Rung after rung and still
    the oxygen immerses me
    the blue light
    the clear atoms
    of our human air.
    I go down.
    My flippers cripple me,
    I crawl like an insect down the ladder
    and there is no one
    to tell me when the ocean
    will begin.

    The speaker descends the ladder into the ocean and cannot tell “when the ocean / will begin.” She reports that her flippers cripple her, and she crawls like an insect down the ladder. She seems to have difficulty approaching that “book of myths.”

    Fourth Movement:  An Ocean Filled with Air

    First the air is blue and then
    it is bluer and then green and then
    black I am blacking out and yet
    my mask is powerful
    it pumps my blood with power
    the sea is another story
    the sea is not a question of power
    I have to learn alone
    to turn my body without force
    in the deep element.

    The speaker describes the color of the air, seeming to have forgotten that her metaphor created a diver entering the ocean: there would be no air in the ocean water. She claims she is “blacking out,” but she also claims that her mask is powerful.

    The mask does a remarkable thing: “it pumps my blood with power.”   This claim creates another absurdity; the mask protects the diver from drowning by covering her nose and furnishing oxygen; it has nothing to do with directly pumping blood.

    Alone, she has to learn to how turn her body in the water.  She is creating image upon image, claim upon claim that offer nothing of substance.  She seems to imply that someone should have been there to help her learn to “turn [her] body without force”—but never reveals who or why such assistance would be expected or even necessary.

    Fifth Movement:  Ocean Breathing Is Surprisingly Different

    And now: it is easy to forget
    what I came for
    among so many who have always
    lived here
    swaying their crenellated fans
    between the reefs
    and besides
    you breathe differently down here.

    The speaker now reports that she almost forgets why she came, as she observes the sea creatures that are used to their habitat, and that “you breathe differently down here”—another superfluous remark, given the fact that she would be equipped with diving gear supplying the oxygen—obviously breathing with diving equipment would cause one to “breathe differently.”

    When this speaker is not making blatantly false statements, she simply offers up simplistic remarks whose substance remains lacking, because the information they present is obvious, that is, already known.

    Sixth Movement:  Words, Maps, Purpose

    I came to explore the wreck.
    The words are purposes.
    The words are maps.
    I came to see the damage that was done
    and the treasures that prevail.
    I stroke the beam of my lamp
    slowly along the flank
    of something more permanent
    than fish or weed

    In a failed attempt to bring the metaphor together, the speaker baldly states what the reader has known all along, “I came to explore the wreck.” She adds, “The words are purposes. / The words are maps.”

    Again, she adds text without any new information to further her narrative. All agree that words have purpose and are similar to maps.  The speaker adds, “I came to see the damage that was done / and the treasures that prevail.” Again, nothing new here, that is what all divers who explore shipwrecks do.

    Seventh Movement:  Circles of Unreason

    the thing I came for:
    the wreck and not the story of the wreck
    the thing itself and not the myth
    the drowned face always staring
    toward the sun
    the evidence of damages
    worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
    the ribs of the disaster
    curving their assertion
    among the tentative haunters.

    The speaker then emphasizes that she came for the wreck itself “not the story of the wreck.” This metaphorically presents a very huge problem. Remembering that the “wreck” is the “book of myths.”

    “Myths” are stories, and although she now claims she is really after the thing itself and not the myth, she has no way of securing that thing, because it exists only in the “book of myths.”

    The speaker is now asking the reader to accept only her interpretation of the myths and not what others have found. She is implying that only she has truth of the thing; she can take the myth and make it not be a myth.

    Eighth Movement:  Because the Speaker Says So

    This is the place.
    And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
    streams black, the merman in his armored body.
    We circle silently
    about the wreck
    we dive into the hold.
    I am she: I am he

    In order to turn the wreck/myth into “the thing,” the speaker creates a drama of a mermaid and merman who “circle silently / about the wreck / we dive into the hold. / I am she: I am he.”

    The speaker is now transforming herself from a mere reader/diver into an androgynous creature that has the delicious ability to report about the wreck merely because the speaker says so.

    Ninth Movement:  A Question of Death

    whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
    whose breasts still bear the stress
    whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
    obscurely inside barrels
    half-wedged and left to rot
    we are the half-destroyed instruments
    that once held to a course
    the water-eaten log
    the fouled compass

    This creature is actually dead, displaying a “drowned face [that] sleeps with open eyes.” The open eyes, unfortunately, cannot see any better than closed eyes when they are situated in the head of a corpse. 

    But then again, maybe they are not really dead, for she claims, “we are the half-destroyed instruments that once worked” but because of that iceberg now lie ruined beneath the waves.

    Tenth Movement:   Sculpting from Misinformed Fancy

    We are, I am, you are
    by cowardice or courage
    the one who find our way
    back to this scene
    carrying a knife, a camera
    a book of myths
    in which
    our names do not appear.

    Apparently having grown tired of the water drama, the speaker sheds the scuba-gear and rouses up a universal, all-encompassing, profound statement: that “book of myths” does not contain our names. Whose names?  Surely, she means to call attention to all of those women who have been left out of history.  But this claim is simply not true.

    In fact, there are many “books of myths” that contain the names and activities of many women throughout history, for example Greek mythology [1], Hindu [2], Norse [3], and Eqyptian [4].  According to Joanna Gillan, writing in “Ten Powerful and Fearsome Women of the Ancient World” [5],

    There have been female figures throughout history who held powerful roles or played significantly influential parts too. Throughout history there have been many powerful women who have led nations or guided armies into war, renowned not only as fearsome fighters, but also as cunning strategists and inspirational leaders. There were others who made a name for themselves in a domain traditionally held by men and whose stories, carried forward over the centuries, continue to be told today.

    The speaker has made the disingenuous claim that women have been omitted from mythological and historical narratives, based on her own fabricated notion of one non-existent book of myths.

    But that notion of women being omitted from history remains a disingenuous talking point in the feminist movement.  And it is one talking point that can be easily refuted with a little common sense and some serious research.

    Sources

    [1] Mostafa Abo El Makarem.  “The Role Of Women In The Greek Mythology.” Promediaz.  Updated August 5, 2021.
    [2] Jay Varma. “Panchakanya: Five Powerful Women From The Epics.” Sandeep & Gitanjali Maini Foundation. Accessed March 4, 2024.
    [3] Karl Andersson.  “21 Norse Goddesses and Their Influence, Powers & Myths.” Nordic Perspective.  January 25, 2023.
    [4]  Joshua J. Mark.  “The Women of Ancient Egypt.” World History Encyclopedia.  February 28, 2024.
    [5] Joanna Gillan.  “Ten Powerful and Fearsome Women of the Ancient World.”  Ancient Origins.  Updated August 1, 2018.

    Image b: Adrienne Rich -  https://npg.si.edu/object/npg_NPG.2013.55  National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian
    Image: Adrienne Rich – National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian

    Commentaries on Other Adrienne Rich Poems

    • Adrienne Rich’s “Living in Sin” Adrienne Rich’s poem “Living in Sin” is one of American literature’s finest pieces in free verse.  Its theme of disillusionment plays out in colorful sense imagery.  This little drama remains one of this poet’s best poetic efforts.
    • Adrienne Rich’s “Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers”  Structured in three awkward movements, Adrienne Rich’s “Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers” explores a theme that feminists [1] employ to assert concocted damage done to women by “patriarchal” marriage.
  • The Starry Night on His T-Shirt  

    Image:  Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night https://www.vangoghgallery.com/painting/starry-night.html
    Image: Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night – The Van Gogh Gallery

    The Starry Night on His T-Shirt  

    those big swirls through the sky startle—Vincent’s vision
     must have been something much less than twenty / 
    twenty to have seen stars that big.  church goers would 
    think some revelation at hand, the second coming perhaps
     if the stars were that damned big.  from his window his view of the
    trees shaped the trees like sheep.  and 
    the rolling hills like the hips of a well-nourished woman.
    the lights are on in many of the houses.  long loaves of bread being
    pulled out of the oven, fresh bottles of Chablis, 
    and little François recounting to papa his exploits 
    with Marie, and papa laughing with a wide mouth
    showing its contents, and maman’s brow forming its quiet frown, but
    outside, a mourner on his way home carrying 
    his bundle will step inside the church and lip a little prayer trying to
    pray his way back to love and hope and, perhaps, 
    the will to keep on.  those bushes that loom up like a fire, 
    did you want us to see fire?  the fire in the stars is not
     enough, Vincent?  you had to lap our lenses with a flaming bush? 
    eleven stars and a crescent moon, almost a horseshoe that moon, all
    swirling in halos.  Vincent, you have painted the wind that raises a
    storm across the sky.  and now his T-shirt bears your art, tempting me
    to bare my heart to your stars.

  • periwinkle

    322a Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem
    Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem

    periwinkle

    for Carlene

    a bloom or just plain
    blossoming
    in nether field of mind

    swirls of twirling
    ripe fruit
    whirling in the wind

    starlight brighter
    than rocks the rain
    left behind

    green pollen 
    where the magic bee
    turns in time

  • A Walk through the City after the Rain

    315a Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem
    Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem

    A Walk through the City after the Rain

    In a blaze of memory the streets flare up
    Between the concrete cells of my brain—
    Hard as night the rain has not loosened the fire
    That tears through the walls of my mad heart.

    You rise out of the demolition of buildings.
    With the axe of your words you hack through the cement—
    Sidewalks and down alleyways you gain speed
    Surefooted and safe from this mad stalker heart.

    My thoughts dangle at the end of a long line—
    A stranger assures me that many fish still swim
    In the oceans and time has a way with mad hearts—
    But she has not heard your boots on hardwood.

    And she has not watched you brush grass from her hair
    And she did not feel the thunder in your voice
    The night that lightning struck the house
    And put out the fire with your naked hands.

    315b Max Surreal Abstract Image by Grok inspired by the poem.jpg
    Image: Max Surreal Abstract Image by Grok inspired by the poem
  • The Apartment

    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem
    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem

    The Apartment

    The stairs angled up the outside 
    Of the building like those I climbed 
    To the first apartment I lived in, 
    After I got married the first time.
    He was an anthropology major,
    His girlfriend archaeology.
    She wanted him to move in there with her, 
    But it’s easy to see why he
    Balked; at home he lived all the suburban 
    Comforts: carpet, quiet plumbing, spacious, 
    Fresh rooms his mommy kept tidy, plus his daddy’s
    Computer to write term papers on.
    A second story apartment in Old Town sucks:
    Noisy neighbors, roaches (I saw a big one 
    Race down the ragged arm 
    Of the sofa and zoom 
    Into a crack in the baseboard), 
    Little closet space, no garage; 
    Convenient walking distance to campus 
    Hoists the rent to scandalous.
    But while his girlfriend spent six weeks digging in Africa, 
    We put it to use a couple of July afternoons. 
    His fresh youth promised a good romp
    As he bulged a yeasty readiness—but alas!
    He lacked skill with his master tool, 
    But still his succulent lips and skillful tongue
    Put a bounce in the balls of my feet
    As they mounted those stairs two at a time.

  • Will’s Mistress

    Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem
    Image created by ChatGPT inspired by the poem

    Will’s Mistress

    “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”  —Shakespeare Sonnet #130

    If he thinks my eyes are not like the sun,
    He must think someone else’s are,
    And her lips are red as coral, I suspect.
    And on her head grows flaxen silk
    Not like the dark wires that stick out of mine.
    He probably hears tunes in her voice,
    Though he says he loves to hear me talk.
    She, no doubt, exhales expensive perfumes,
    When he gets his nose next to her mouth.
    He must think she glides along the earth like Athena,
    But I just plod the ground in my flat shoes.
    If his love for me is so goddam rare,
    Why do I come out sounding like
    Just another one of his shittin’ sonnets?

  • Dr. Frankenstink Crafts His Whimsy

    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem
    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem

    Dr. Frankenstink Crafts His Whimsy

    Fixated on fashioning life with unliving things,
    He falls in love with Whimsy, codifies her, imbues her
    With the stench of personality that he can sleep with
    Without sleep cocking her to unconsciousness.
    Rummage, rummage the trash heaps,
    The garbage bins, the dumps,
    And rotting flow of swill and sewage—
    Whimsy takes her ungodly shape:
    Big cardboard box head
    Empty except for butt
    Of chamber pot for mouth.
    Needle-nose pliers for a snout.
    Cash register $ $ for eyes.
    Short stature in height
    But makes up for it in width.
    Mold-speckled cabbage leaves cover
    Her big cardboard box head.
    Broken wine bottles about her neck.
    Her huge tree-stump legs mock
    The act of walking.
    Flea collar of rabid dog around each wrist.
    Barrel-drum arms that rub against
    Shag fecal-smattered carpet glued
    Against her sides.  Faking a dress,
    Monstrous cum-stained sheets swaddle 
    Her middle region—
    More an equator than a waist—
    Drooping down over the stumps,
    Flowing with blood and urine onto the ground.
    Dr. Frankenstink loves his Whimsy,
    Locks her in his arms, croons to her
    A misbegotten lullaby that reminds him
    Of his murdered fiancée, after her last abortion.

  • Man of Steel

    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem
    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem

    Man of Steel

    owed to Auden’s “Unknown Citizen”

    Unbuckled pride strains credulity
    On cinder blocks in the rain—
    Profit the man of steel
    Whose chalk mentality scratches
    Gold flecks of a summer night.
    Blank as the dank posted willows
    That slum the crum tide leeching
    The verbiage of metaphor walking
    Like sticks stuck down by the tracks.

    In the brain waves of goats, they look
    For crystalline stalactites,
    But thiamine quelled the stretch
    As the Man of Steel hovered
    The neighborhood and plunged
    Into the hypocrisy of postmodern wit.
    Narrowing a brow, lifting a finger,
    Touting the untoutable, scraping
    The wilderness out of a circus town.

    Night closes ultimately and Whimsy may fade
    But Dr. Frankenstink will cozy up to her lost foot
    As long as grapevines tangle on the waste land.
    Neither past nor future calls his name, and no island
    Brings comfort as much as departure without infamy.
    He left no logical heir to fan the flames of his poetry—
    That dust-drilled style of poetry that everybody reads
    Until morning echoes in the bottom of a bucket.
    Run on, Soul of the Man of Steel, to heaven’s loft.

  • I Envy

    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem
    Image created by Grok inspired by the poem

    I Envy

    “I envy Seas, whereon He rides” —Emily Dickinson

    I envy morning that breaks over his strong chest.
    I envy noon that calls him to lunch.
    I envy evening that sees
    his eyes grow tired from screening,
    and night—I envy her arms, her bed linen
    enfolding his warm limbs
    while he sleeps.
    I envy his car: rear view mirror 
    catching his glances, 
    gear-shift knob responding 
    to his warm hand, clutch
    knowing the pressure of his foot, 
    ignition accepting his key.
    I envy the route his car takes to work
    and the other drivers who might catch
    a glimpse of him as he goes.
    and I envy the music he listens to, 
    and I envy the clothes that rub 
    against his toned body,
    and I envy all of his co-workers
    who see his bright face
    lighting up from cheery banter.
    I envy his coffee cup, his fork,
    and spoon, and the table under
    which his legs rest while he dines—
    most of all:
    I envy the waitress with whom he flirts,
    glimpsing her breasts, wondering
    how they would feel in his hands
    and on his naked chest, and how
    she would sound moving under him.

    A slightly different version of appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems.

  • The Eyes of the Pumpkin

    Image created by Gemini inspired by the poem
    Image created by Gemini inspired by the poem

    The Eyes of the Pumpkin

    The candle soots the roof of my skull,  
    this cap carved out of the top of my head,
    sitting on a slab staring at begging children
    whose greedy bags rustle the end of October.

    My memory of harvest  
    is a snap of the umbilical,  
    now a tufted handle of decay.

    The candle, feigning a brain,
    has flickered evening away;
    thoughts set in wax
    on the floor of my mouth —
    the last child has rustled the leaves

    all sweets are given away,   
    my eyes black holes.