is a dented suit of armor, a designer gown
with grimy lining. She's the cause of false beliefs.
She fucks up my ability to love. She's prickly
and tender as an artichoke heart. She proposes
to me so frequently I can't hear other people
speak. She's a self-annointed guide who materializes
at my side with a flourish of trumpets and a bullhorn.
She's a forged love letter, a jailer impersonating a
friend. She's a series of flashbacks in which I'm
both victim and hero. I try to bribe her into exile,
but she calls herself my servant and falls weeping
at my feet. I'm forever banishing her, this mistress
of disguises, even as she clamors back into my lap,
begging my pardon and getting all kissy with me,
grabbing my hand and jamming it down her blouse.
Horizontal Women
Women free-falling, fainted, or overcome, arms raised
or flung. Women mostly young and unsung. Women
diving for pearls. A girl tossing her curls, or out cold
mid-clinch. One muddy gal asleep in a ditch. Women
leaping or snoring. Prone women imploring. A babe
brainy as any female could get. A woman who doesn't
know she's pregnant yet, lying on dry grass awaiting
hard rain. Women in pain. A twist with braceleted
wrists. A chick who insists she can't stand up till
you say yes. A lady you'd never guess would get
herself murdered. A woman unheard who just
lies there and cries. A femme who mightily sighs.
Woman as some kind of horizon, another woman's hand
on the back of her head. Or, instead, each she is the line
at the farthest place you can see, if you squint your eyes,
where the sky seems to descend to touch land or sea.
Virginity
Lying down on the rug with someone and getting dust
bunnies in your hair. The eloquence of long pauses.
Passing notes rather than speaking. A basement fogged
with pot smoke. Trying to read another body via its breathing.
The idea that if you kiss someone you can taste what they
just ate. Refusing to eat what your mother cooks anymore,
which hurts her feelings. But you can't stand dead sautéed
animal inside your mouth now, so you have to spit it out.
The myth that innocence is protective. The idea of not
being able to stop. Reading secret magazines a cousin stuffed
in the bottom of his sleeping bag. The idea that someone
curious about your body isn't interested in the private theatre
of your mind. Theories that there might be a kind of
violence about it. How mother insists that without true love
it's just worthless humping, and the idea that for the life
you aspire to, she's probably wrong. What your body has
promised for so long. The idea of your disastrous premiere.
The idea of someone laughing at you after. The idea of
hoofprints, stampede damage, stuff crushed underfoot.
The idea of keeping all this hidden as you slowly lotus open.
From Index of Women by Amy Gerstler (Penguin)
See, too, https://ashberyland.com/2017/01/13/six-questions-interview-with-amy-gerstler/
perfection, cubed
Posted by: Jack Skelley | October 22, 2022 at 03:02 PM
The more Amy Gerstler poems in the world, the better. Hurrah for these.
Posted by: Angela Ball | October 22, 2022 at 03:03 PM
I enjoyed this poem immensely.
My favorite line is
"The idea that someone
curious about your body isn't interested in the private theatre
of your mind".
Now that I've reached into the early seventh decade of life, it seems the reverse is true.
Posted by: Joel Weiner | October 22, 2022 at 03:34 PM
I love these poems! I could read Amy Gerstler poems until the cows came home.
Posted by: Nin Andrews | October 22, 2022 at 04:50 PM
If these are poems, what were those things made by Emily Dickinson, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, and so many others? Poetry uncovers truths of the human condition, by way of language that mimics the majesty and mute beauty of the human animal. Poets are admonished to "make it new;" what is implied, though, is that they first master the old.
Posted by: Dave Read | October 22, 2022 at 07:01 PM
Dear Dave Read, you have a great name -- anagrammatically. Dear Vera, Dare Dead Rave! That's a rhetorical gambit, but so is the first sentence of your comment -- the rhetorical question masquerading as a self-evident assertion. Then the ex cathedra platitude ("poetry uncovers truths of the human condition," yawn), then the nice alliteration of "mimics the majesty and mute beauty of the human animal." The final sentence, passive voice, avoids saying that it was Ezra Pound who commanded poets to "make it new." That was his pronouncement, and though there are those who continue to take it to heart (foolishly, because novelty is not poetry), it's the last clause that makes the most sense. Would that young poets aspire to "master the old"!
Posted by: David Lehman | October 23, 2022 at 11:30 AM
Dear Mr. Lehman, Don't make this about me, when it is about you, a scholar cast in the role of assistant/adjunct/acting gatekeeper of American poetry. You do un-best poets no favor by publishing them under your oh-so-boastful title.
But to satisfy your interest in me, I am a vocational poet in search of fellowship in a world where market forces have converted poetry to an occupation, administered by the academy, which is to say, by people who teach that which they cannot do (well enough for all the perks of campus life).
In the wild, there's no such thing as a young poet, because a thorough dose of life is a prerequisite of the best poetry (plus beaucoup reading), which is the only poetry worth being late to dinner for.
p.s. Is "for" a good word with which to finish a sentence?
Posted by: Dave Read | October 23, 2022 at 02:55 PM
p.p.s. What Pound said wasn't a commandment (poets take neither lay, nor holy, orders), nor a pronouncement, but his testimony about the nature of the poem/poetry. I declined attribution because of his treasonous behavior in behalf of forces that are about to erupt, again.
Posted by: Dave Read | October 23, 2022 at 07:56 PM
Trump favors the ad hominem approach, too, Dr. Lehman; and your childish anagram of my name to make "Dead" appear, shows that you are in tune with "Death con Ye."
Posted by: Dave Read | October 26, 2022 at 09:24 AM
Dear Dave Read, It is fine to conclude a sentence with "for." Like Nabokov and others I find anagrams enchanting and inspiring. (Avid am I. Dad led me.) Not surprised am I that you, who, in the comments space here, pop off with opinionated insults, should such thin skin have. Nor do I reply merely to trump your efforts in triplicate. Sincerely, Lad Named Dave. Ave!
Posted by: David Lehman | October 26, 2022 at 09:25 AM
There you go again, back into Trump's ad hominem sandbox, full of letter blocks for fun with words. You're unable to answer a reasonable judgment so you label it pop-off opinion and attack me. At long last, Mr. Lehman, have you no shame? p.s. I've read Vladimir, you're no Nabakov!
Posted by: Dave Read | October 26, 2022 at 06:34 PM
"There you go again": Ronald Reagan to Jimmy Carter.
"Have you no shame?": Joe Welch to Senator Joseph McCarthy.
Correct spelling of Nabokov: Nabokov.
Cheers.
Posted by: David Lehman | October 28, 2022 at 11:02 AM
Good job with the Easter eggs, Dave, 2 out of 3 ain't bad! But, how could you miss Bentsen to Quayle?
p.s. Could you recommend an online forum where a discussion of poetry may be found?
Posted by: Dave Read | October 28, 2022 at 02:35 PM
Thanks for the sparring match, David. I will use this colloquy elsewhere to illustrate my concern about the sorry state of American poetry. If there's anything you don't want me to quote, please let me know.
Posted by: Dave Read | October 29, 2022 at 03:52 PM
Dear Dave, I read you.
Posted by: David Lehman | October 29, 2022 at 06:31 PM