I do not fear fear

"As a child I was taught that to tell the truth was often painful. As an adult I have learned that not to tell the truth is more painful, and that the fear of telling the truth — whatever the truth may be — that fear is the most painful sensation of a moral life."

June Millicent Jordan, political activist, writer, poet, essayist, and teacher (1936-2002), in Life After Lebanon (1984) (also in Some of Us Did Not Die: New and Selected Essays of June Jordan (2002))

Golems in the closet

For some time now I have been preoccupied by and writing on the ordeals and atrocities women face, ranging from the banal which should never have become banal, to the downright inhuman. I wrote several pieces on marital rape, on the various trauma men inflict women, consciously or not, throughout their life. With this new series, Golems, I deliberately chose to always open each poem with the same line, and to always narrate the story from a male point of view not to highlight the fact that each issues tackled is the same or of the same importance, but that's it's a generic, standard masculine reaction.

Above all, I wanted to show how these behaviours, and most people's reaction to them, are normalised. Frequently people don't bat an eye when a women is raped by her husband. I've heard some men say that “a wife raped by her husband” is antinomic. Notice the 'some men'. Of course it's a minority which tends to exert its need to be vocal, but many men won't know the difference, and think consent once given is thereby always granted. I'm not saying a husband should ask his wife's permission to have sex every time he feels horny, but I'm saying that if his wife says 'no' then that 'no' shouldn't be debated, debatable. Same goes for unmarried couples, sex buddies, one night stands, whatever.

In my previous pieces women weren't the only focus though, as their fate is almost always entwined with that of their children. In these new instances I have tried to focus on women to shine a single light on their plight so we realise that their basic rights are regularly denied, that they always have to fight against something. We men have it easy, as we made the laws long ago, when our grip on women was even stronger than it is now.

We need more accurate, more targetted, more up-to-date, fairer laws addressing these issues, but in order to root out the problem we also need a different type of education. We perpetuate the stereotypes we are inculcated and it seeps through everything, it even infects our language, especially in French and languages which differentiate gender by using the male pronoun and nouns most of the time. We condition boys and girls alike, and funnel them into a frame of reference and a format which go against the notions of equality and of justice. We take it for granted that as our parents were this and that, we necessarily have to be this and that. Lots of balderdash to me.

I'm a man who was raised with these precepts. I do not remember any specific occasion, but I must have been guilty, early in my twenties, of importuning a girl when drunk, of making her feel uncomfortable, therefore abusing the position of power I didn't know I had. I am clean out of it, been so for more than a decade and a half. As a teacher, I participate in and witness slow but steady changes in mentalities, a slight shift of the paradigm, but it's much too slow to be effective. We need to address this frontally, we need to go nationwide, without taboo, and believe me: there won't be any nut-kicking (for most of us).

To wrap up this already-too-long post, I'll just say that the title to the series stands for all the various monsters we can encounter in mythologies and legends, and is very meaningful to me. I'm not going to break down each poem, or give an overarching analysis of the series, but of course they each do have a particular signification, as have many elements within the poems, their structure, their patterns. I do hope you “enjoyed” reading them, that you found them engaging enough, that they gave you food for thought.

For more comfort, you can access the series right here (start at the bottom).

Take care,

Rodolphe

 

Jörmungandr

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

one of those times she couldn't but lose face.

The verdict out, the judge would soon adjourn

and she'd be trapped in her own emptiness:

hysterical, a custody transfer

would be granted to that sozzled disgrace

of a husband; joblessness a concern

she'd have endless periods to address.

Like her black hole of a heart that would spur

cycles of anger after which she'd space;

with her children silent, distant, and stern,

the jury ruled her unfit to progress.

Sure, he'd cited her rape by a teacher,

and her mom gone missing without a trace.

His job's done, no reason his guts will churn,

tonight he's home with a wife to caress.

For her all this will happen in a blur –

orbiting nightmares she'd better efface,

and shed the memories that give heartburn –

with no choice but to mull over the mess.

Amarok

 

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

birthing in a hut reeking of resin?

How could they live in a place caked in crud?

Plainly not the first time she was pregnant –

even more plainly she needed succour.

Clutching on the crucifix to lessen

the pain – also biting on that bark spud –

the outgush of humours was incessant.

After a moment he had to demur –

she had to hush for he had to listen:

only the carmine dripping on the mud

could be heard: the babe had fallen silent.

'Course death in this hovel had to occur,

with food not even fit for a raven!

The last straw was this unending red flood –

the master'd tarried helping his tenant.

He grimaced sullenly at how things were –

there was no way on earth and in heaven

his wooden clogs weren't spoilt by black blood –

God his witness he hated this peasant.

 

Kraken

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

something along the lines of c'est la vie,

that there is prestige in being a bride,

that she need not the fate of boys envy.

Some girls are born without any favour,

some women are sold into slavery,

she should feel lucky, not feel mortified:

tonight at last she'll be worth each penny

her folk saved for her, for land is silver.

She should see too the fate of the slutty,

she should ask her folk: there's nowhere to hide,

and less favoured than her have no dowry.

He'd seen men swap coins like a connoisseur

for whores for no one likes an amputee –

no woman was by nature dignified –

she ought therefore to take marriage gently,

she ought to see it as a life-saver,

life here for eight-year-olds can be shitty.

Besides, it wasn't for her to decide.

Tonight, she'd no choice but to be ready.

 

A poet's job

"Voilà bien la seule création permise à la créature. Car, s’il est vrai que la multitude des regards patine les statues, les lieux communs, chefs-d’œuvre éternels, sont recouverts d’une crasse qui les rend invisibles et cache leur beauté. Mettez un lieu commun en place, nettoyez-le, frottez-le, éclairez-le de telle sorte qu’il frappe, avec sa jeunesse et avec la même fraîcheur, le même jet qu’il avait à sa source, vous ferez œuvre de poète. Tout le reste est littérature."

Jean Cocteau, French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic (1889-1963), in Le Secret professionel (1922) p. 509.


"Here is the only true creation allowed to the creature. As it is true that statues are worn out by the multitude of gazes, the commonplace, though eternal masterpieces, are rendered invisible by a covering grime which masks their beauty. Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature."


Precisely my point developed here.

Colossus

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

except he felt like he had been cheated:

of his wife, life, and masculinity.

No law said he should be thus castrated.

Women's flesh was weak, the great saboteur –

she sure had rights, but these were conceited,

erecting women to divinity,

leaving men in the dirt, amputated.

Only final truths remained to proffer:

no equal law would stand undefeated,

no law would strip him of his dignity –

he'd have his woman's body till sated,

yes, till he was content, oh yes mister,

and the full extent of his rights seated –

consent was his droit to stability –

her body his as oft demonstrated –

for all men a tacit droit du seigneur –

peace of mind finally re-created –

no fault innate in men's virility,

his banal missteps thus vindicated.

 

Organised Chaos

"Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still."

T.S. Eliot (1888-1965) in Four Quartets, Burnt Norton, V (first published 1936).

One needs not wrestle with words. One needs to be patient, and release the tension, shine a different light, clear the dust, the mud, the mortar, perhaps give them a polish, a wash so chaos can be understood as it reforms. One needs not order with words. One needs at keen eye to see where the threads form, bond within, and attach without. Words evolve, mutate, adapt to their environment. One needs to figure out the organisation to see the point.

Titan

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

he never did – and never would, of course.

He would always have that knot in his throat,

he would always be staring at his shoes.

Her perfume flooding the elevator,

her elbow brushing him made his voice hoarse –

like most women she was the antidote –

this kindled his heart and beat out the blues.

Next step was daydreaming his life with her:

her daily dress a plea for intercourse,

begging to be fucked through her petticoat,

her conniving eyes one of many cues.

The fire stoking his groin made him purr –

entering their office like a trojan horse –

hiding his bloated sex under his coat,

for every case he had devised a ruse.

But he'd never act – he'd be a crass cur –

and his wife would rightly file for divorce,

him the perfect husband who would devote

his mind to a life he'd be dumb to lose.

 

Goliath

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

how fast it escalated was her fault,

she should take a look again how she dressed –

even top gentlemen would be distraught.

Always he strove for the ladies' favour,

his body and his brains with no default –

so it was etiquette to let the best

of the ladies know they were food for thought.

Yet she didn't think him a flatterer –

now he would have to go file for assault

as she whistled back, crossed the street and messed

with him when she added she could be bought.

Why so hostile, making him a poseur

while he would only peace and love exalt?

His parents had brought him up with precepts,

rules like respect and restraint had been taught –

so her shouting at him slur upon slur,

telling him he was reason for revolt?

that he was all girls would ever detest?

Never was such an unfair lawsuit wrought.