The Winged Victory of Samothrace

[radiantfracture]

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,

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 wing

truncated, 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 Tower

crouching 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.

Comments

Thoughts

[ysabetwordsmith]

It does suggest that places could do different things to make their history and culture accessible to more people, which would additionally reduce crowding that they bitch about. Small artifacts could be displayed in roll-under tables. Collections of artwork may be distanced from the original location. Many places already have virtual-reality tours. 3D printing makes it easy to offer tactile maps and models. Famous places often have music or movies featuring them. Now imagine putting those together to create multiple sites and modes of interaction, spread around the area, so not everyone is trying to cram into the Great Whatever which may not be well suited to their bodies, senses, or even interests.