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radiantfracture) wrote2020-05-25 10:56 am
radiantfracture) wrote2020-05-25 10:56 am
Entry tags:
The Winged Victory of Samothrace
A few weeks ago, after being rejected by an online magazine, I huffily went to the site thinking "Well, what DO you want, then?" and immediately encountered a poem so miraculously good that I felt thoroughly fate-chastened: Roxanna Bennett's "The Winged Victory of Samothrace".
I didn't know Bennett's work at all, nor her, but I am captivated by the skillful formalism, the intellect, and the immediacy. She writes about embodiment, queerness, illness, disability, temporality, so precisely, deftly, and wryly.
On a whim, I searched to see if she could be contacted, and found that it seemed possible only via a comments box on her website. I wrote an effusive little note -- including, for some reason, a typo I thought I'd found1 -- and sent it into no-space.
She wrote back! We've had a few really nice exchanges, and when I said I was going to order her book, she sent me a copy herself! It just arrived, and not only is the poetry wonderful, the book is a beautiful object:
I don't recognize the cards on the cover showing human-animal hybrids, and I haven't found a credit for the images. Do they look familiar to you?
[ETA: had to fix the formatting that dropped out - the placement of lines is essential!]
Here is just the first part of that first poem I encountered:
"The Winged Victory of Samothrace"
Roxanna Bennett
after “Bilingual Pathways” by Dominik Parisien
In Paris the air tastes like pain, ancient,
an offensive question in French,
crouching in a rat run parking lot.
Élysées and throw up again in the Seine.
...so I mean. Look at that slippery alliteration, the sneaky round-the-corner rhyme, the visual play on the idea of wings. And "let my body be so in translation." Oof.
{rf}
1. When I went back, I couldn't find it, so I believe I actually misread the line. Luckily there was a missing capital letter, so that served. I mean, I meant to be helpful, but eesh.
I didn't know Bennett's work at all, nor her, but I am captivated by the skillful formalism, the intellect, and the immediacy. She writes about embodiment, queerness, illness, disability, temporality, so precisely, deftly, and wryly.
On a whim, I searched to see if she could be contacted, and found that it seemed possible only via a comments box on her website. I wrote an effusive little note -- including, for some reason, a typo I thought I'd found1 -- and sent it into no-space.
She wrote back! We've had a few really nice exchanges, and when I said I was going to order her book, she sent me a copy herself! It just arrived, and not only is the poetry wonderful, the book is a beautiful object:
I don't recognize the cards on the cover showing human-animal hybrids, and I haven't found a credit for the images. Do they look familiar to you?
[ETA: had to fix the formatting that dropped out - the placement of lines is essential!]
Here is just the first part of that first poem I encountered:
"The Winged Victory of Samothrace"
Roxanna Bennett
after “Bilingual Pathways” by Dominik Parisien
In Paris the air tastes like pain, ancient,
golden, Gauloises, Gitanes, paint the skin
with guttersweat grease. I learn to limp
through the Louvre, loving the Winged
Victory of Samothrace both for slowing
the staircase pace, & reminding
what holy is. Armless, headless, “right wingtruncated, reconstructed” nonetheless, a vision
of wholeness. Let my body be so in translation.
Is the Mona Lisa smugger on oxycontin
or is that my blood sugar dropping?
“Does this soufflé contain gluten”an offensive question in French,
Czech, & German. Prescripion
Dexedrine jet lag's privilege, gag on
dinner in the Michelin-starred restaurant,
learn to starve in new languages, sicken
myself bitching about the Eiffel Towercrouching in a rat run parking lot.
Cathedrals I can't climb are yes, quite
staggering from outside, but treasure isn't
left on the curb to writhe, the theremin
whine of tinnitus more tedious in
French. I'm queasy on the Champs-Élysées and throw up again in the Seine.
The pharmacienne sneers at my stinging
skin, recommends sixty euro Avène,
can I keep walking through this pain,
temporary, like Paris, September, the sun.
Next time I'm here might be never....so I mean. Look at that slippery alliteration, the sneaky round-the-corner rhyme, the visual play on the idea of wings. And "let my body be so in translation." Oof.
{rf}
1. When I went back, I couldn't find it, so I believe I actually misread the line. Luckily there was a missing capital letter, so that served. I mean, I meant to be helpful, but eesh.