Once I did kiss her wetly on the mouth
and her lips loosened, her tongue rising like a fish
to swim in my waters
because she learns the world
by tasting it, by taking it inside.

I desired it–her learning my tongue that way.

Yes, I wanted to soul-kiss my daughter,
to lather, slaver the toothless gums
and the cat-arched back of her palate,
to sniff the bouquet of baby’s breath
all the way to the vase of her throat

Look at her, in her highchair,
wearing her yam goatee

I like to take her whole foot in my mouth

Look at her, in her bib
slung backward, like a superhero’s cape–
beware, small villains everywhere

Oh, that first day
when the nurses returned her to my cot
so newly minted, her soles were black from ink
they laid her, naked, on my naked chest
so she could swell my breasts with milksong,
so I could warm her skin with my skin,
and so, next to my more regular heart,
her skittish beat would steady–
though I swear when she latched on
all meter, music changed

I whispered in her see-through ear
I’d keep her safe forever–
I, her first lover.

This poem comes after a poem entitled ” ‘If Only We Could Keep Them Small Forever’ ” in Fennelly’s book Tender Hooks. I was thinking to myself as I read the book (just finishing ” ‘If Only We Could Keep Them Small Forever’ “) how bizarre it was that the next poem was entitled “Once I Did Kiss Her Wetly On The Mouth.” A lesbian encounter, a persona poem written from a male perspective, her husband’s perspective maybe? And right after a poem about her newborn daughter?

Nope. As interesting as any of those would have been (if only, maybe, at the hands of Fennelly herself), the poem is instead one about kissing her daughter, on the mouth–in the mouth. What should my initial reaction be? Well, I think I was shocked initially (probably intentionally) that I could only see Sylvia Plath–the “cat-arched back of her palate” & “bouquet of baby’s breath” immediately recalling “Your mouth opens as clean as a cat’s” and “your moth-breath / Flickers among flat pink roses” from the poem “Morning Song.” So I read it again. I read it eight times, maybe nine. Did this really happen? I couldn’t help to think: what if a father wrote this about his son? Or his daughter?

I still don’t really have answers to those last questions, but if that man (somehow) came from the same powerfully beautiful perspective as Fennelly then it would probably be difficult to argue against him. As utterly confused as I was after my initial reading, I could not bring myself to even attempt to condemn Fennelly’s actions. Child abuse? I, simply, could not even think it. I was humbled, I think. The poem was a self-contained argument, finding its power not in rhetoric and logic but in the profound connection between mother and daughter I could probably never understand.

I mean–”soul-kiss”! And “milksong!” Where does this kind of writing come from? “I desired it–her learning my tongue that way.” Absolutley honest, fearless poetry.

Well, this whole thing isn’t necessarily a Beth Ann Fennelly plug, but for anyone in the UConn area come March 17th–Konover Auditorium at 7:00 PM should be a place to check out considering she’s coming to read here . . .

]]> http://longriverreview.com/blog/2010/once-i-did-kiss-her-wetly-on-the-mouth/feed/ 0 http://longriverreview.com/blog/2010/keep-the-aspidistra-flying/ http://longriverreview.com/blog/2010/keep-the-aspidistra-flying/#comments Thu, 04 Feb 2010 22:11:32 +0000 admin http://longriverreview.com/?p=609 I was recently gifted a copy of this 1936 George Orwell novel by a professor who had inquired about what I wanted to do in life (which seems to be a common, dreaded, and hard-dying question in any college’s English wing). I responded that I’d “like to write,” and her eyes lit up. What was it, that I’d like to write, she asked. It was at that moment that the fatal word escaped my lips: “Poetry.”

She laughed – I’ll always remember the way her lips curled into that evil smile – and she ran into her office. She was back in seconds, and this tome was in her hand.

“Read it,” she said, “over break. And let me know if you change your mind.”

My fate seemed sealed.

This book is one of the most depressingly hilarious books that I have ever read. In it, Orwell portrays protagonist and poet Gordon Comstock as he wages his “War on Money.” The novel critiques the pride and lack-there-of to be found in every social class, and examines the societal and artistic cost that a person must pay in order to succeed in life.

Comstock, rather fatally to both his craft and nearly all of his relationships, believes that one cannot be artistic while holding down a “good job.” In his mind, it is one or the other; one cannot have both.

In order to devote time to his poetry, he quits a “good” advertising job and settles in as a clerk at a book store, where he earns the bare-minimum amount of money on which one could live. The depression of such a barren existence prevents him from completing any work, and he flounders.

As with most conundrums constructed in the human mind, it comes down to pride. Would pride and artistic conviction win out over the Money God? Read the book to find out. For Orwell fans of any age; aspiring poets and artists of every kind; for any person simply looking for an entertaining and hilarious book to read, I highly recommend this compelling and incredibly well-written book.  The question that it raises is as poignant now as it was in 1936: can money and art coexist and, if not, then what will the artistic future of our society be?

- Tim Stobierski

Untitled
by Marcus Rummell

Terrible angel,
I can guarantee a
soft return.

Burn burn
flaming gabriel
shelter with the sun.

Thanks again to everyone and stay tuned for our online flash fiction competition coming up very soon.