Though most of them aren’t much to write about—
mere squibs and nubs, like half-smoked pale cigars,
the tint and stink recalling Tuesday’s meal,
the texture loose and soon dissolved—this one,
struck off in solitude one afternoon
(that prairie stretch before the late light fails)
with no distinct sensation, sweet or pained,
of special inspiration or release,
was yet a masterpiece: a flawless coil,
unbroken, in the bowl, as if a potter
who worked in this most frail, least grateful clay
had set himself to shape a topaz vase.
O spiral perfection, not seashell nor
stardust, how can I keep you? With this poem.
-- John Updike
Ick.
Posted by: Laura Orem | March 24, 2009 at 09:49 AM
I know. It's in the category of "can't look, can't look away."
Posted by: Stacey | March 24, 2009 at 10:24 AM
Sure, Stacey, but what happens when it occurs at work? At home you have some time to lavish on it, to regard and reflect, but at work someone is going to want the stall. I read one of Kingsley Amis' late works, THE OLD DEVILS, a while back; very darkly funny. One of the main characters--a poet, of course--suffers from constipation and would give his eyeteeth for a movement like the one described here. (By the way, what are eyeteeth?) He's a bit "windy" as the Brits say. Also, this reminded me of many old-school critics who disapproved of Joyce because he was always having his characters smell their own piss, especially in the morning. But isn't that the best time?
Posted by: jim cummins | March 24, 2009 at 03:32 PM
OK Jim, there is a great history of preoccupation with evacuation. Perhaps an anthology in the making (no pun intended). Here's a little poem that I've known since college. It is apparently inscribed over an ancient Roman latrine though it has also been attributed to Byron:
O Cloacina, Goddess of this place,
Look on thy suppliants with a smiling face.
Soft,yet cohesive let their offerings flow,
Not rashly swift nor insolently slow.
Posted by: Stacey | March 25, 2009 at 09:41 AM
God, I love girls who use the word "evacuation"! I know, I know: Celia poops, and all that. How about THE ED NORTON ANTHOLOGY OF SNAKE MANAGEMENT? I'll write the first poem, "The Garden of Barbara Eden."
Posted by: jim cummins | March 25, 2009 at 03:11 PM
it's about poop.
Posted by: josh | September 22, 2009 at 11:06 PM
"With this poem" reminds me of Cavafy.
Posted by: Peter C Melonas | November 23, 2012 at 10:18 AM