Kiss Off Read online

  If you're lucky in Reeling, something good will come of your manic attempts to jump-start your life—some class will reveal your vocation, or some party will introduce you to a soul mate. But we've seen Reeling friends stagger straight into pulled hamstrings, bad relationships, nasty gynecological situations, deep debt, and worse.

  The initial Reeling impulse is a good one—we want to live again. No matter how much we tried to shut ourselves away in Hiding, we've been unable to resist the powerful pull of instinct, described in Virgil's “The Wave.” We find ourselves joining “all the creatures on earth” in the rush to charge toward life, love, and the possibility of renewal. But as we surge forward in hope, we sometimes forget (or try to pretend we forget) that there's danger ahead—we face the possibility of crashing on the rocks or getting burned by the fire of love. We ought to temper our instinct with a little reason, a little caution—but we just can't be bothered. We're like teenagers in heat.

  Which brings us conveniently to our next poem, one that perfectly illustrates this phase of adolescent hunger—the up-and-at'em penis. In “Down, Wanton, Down!” the penis (we'll just call him “Wanton,” like Robert Graves) raises his “angry head” to stare down just about anything, Love or Beauty, man or beast—much to the embarrassment of his superior officer, the speaker, who tries to reason with Wanton (when shouting at him doesn't seem to work). Look, you witless Wanton, the speaker says, you're doing me no favors if you can't distinguish between man or beast! I want Beauty and Love, but they'll never swear loyalty to me if you don't learn to “think fine” and act with a little delicacy.

  We're not saying you're sexually out of control in Reeling (although we know plenty of Reelers who once answered to the call of Wanton). We're saying that you're so focused on finding some release, so intent on trying everything until you hit upon happiness, that you lose the ability to choose wisely and thoughtfully. It's like grocery shopping when you're starving—you wind up with a cartful of Pringles and Ben & Jerry's.

  Eventually our bad choices catch up with us, but for a while we cruise along our cocky way, convinced we've pulled a U-turn on misery. What's important is to keep moving, fill up the calendar—don't leave any time to moon over past loves or losses. Like the speaker in Andrew Marvell's “To His Coy Mistress,” we can't waste precious hours on silly, idealized notions of happily ever after. We're getting older and less attractive by the second—so let's grab what we can while we can. We'd rather “tear our pleasures with rough strife”—force ourselves into feeling alive—than wait around for some fairy-tale ending we no longer believe in.

  The problem is we act tougher than we really are—we do too still believe in fairy-tale endings! We do too want to wait for happiness! This busy little life is just another form of waiting, and we know it. We don't want to keep bouncing around like this forever—we want to swoosh into some sweet spot, some home that's meant just for us. But we don't quite know how to get there, so we try on all kinds of attitudes and poses, like the speaker in Carolyn Creedon's “The Nectarine Poem.” She'll become a nectarine, if that will make Tom happy, or an orange—whatever it takes, she'll change into that colorful, juicy something for Tom. Because she knows that he won't leave his wife for her the way she is now, all serious and needy—“with the silence so big it's a sound/and the wanting so big it's a weight.” Tom wants a delicious something he can devour, not a feminist who tastes like rhubarb. So even though she doesn't completely want to do it, even though she hopes he cracks his tooth biting down on her, even though she knows Tom is nothing but a two-timing truffle, she tries to give him what he wants.

  And this is where the bad choices do catch up with you—when you're so out of control with desire that you lose yourself, your reason, your core. You sacrifice your integrity, you do things you'll regret later, all because you want what you want now. You think if you can just grab that brass ring, whatever it is—a boyfriend, a baby, a whopping salary, a bigger home—then you'll stop spinning around on this crazy carousel of desire. Who cares if it means dumping your Birkenstocks for a Wonderbra, dating a milk-toast but marriage-minded guy, kissing up to the boss you detest—you'll do all of it, any of it, if it means you'll finally get to stop searching and wanting.

  Like the waitress in Creedon's “Pub Poem,” you make your “yummy heart” the “Special of the Day,” available cheap to anyone who orders it. The infatuated farmer, the lonely marine, the Pub itself—the waitress will give herself to all of them, because she's desperate to feel needed and wanted. Deep down all she really wants is the love of her life, “the man who slipped away,” but if she can't have him she'll take the next-best thing, or the next-to-last thing. And the more she compromises, flinging herself out in all directions, the deeper she falls into emptiness and angst.

  Of course we finally fall in Reeling—we're exhausted from trying so hard to substitute activity for fulfillment, to pretend that a busy life equals a meaningful life. We've been holding our breath for what seems like “a million ebbing years,” struggling to emerge in some happier life. And we're determined to keep “fighting the tide” until we get there—we refuse to crumple into Hiding again, crouching in the “back of the Pub,” all tight-lipped and sour like the “dead clams and unconsummated lemons.” No, we are going to get the life we want, dammit, if it kills us. And what do you know—eventually the insane pace of Reeling does knock us flat on our backs.

  That's why we love Frank O'Hara's “Poem (Lana ‘Turner Has Collapsed!)”—it lets us laugh at our crazy attempts to outrace unhappiness. Poor Lana Turner (va-va-voom 1950s movie star whose gangster boyfriend Johnny Stompanato was stabbed to death by Lana's teenage daughter, who claimed Johnny had raped her) has collapsed—and who wouldn't if they'd gone through everything Lana had endured! But the speaker in the poem is just as frenzied and harried as Lana must have been—until he learns that LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! Not glamorous, unstoppable Lana! Heavens, no! Because if she's going down—out in picture-perfect Hollywood—he's going down, Mr. Trotting Along in the hail and snow and traffic. And we're all headed toward collapse, all of us “in such a hurry” believers.

  That's where Reeling leaves us, burned out and worn down. We move from telling old Wanton the penis, “Down, boy!” to begging, “oh Lana Turner we love you get up.” Our uncontrollable desire leads to our inevitable crash. Now is the time to remember—living passionately doesn't have to mean being reckless and indiscriminate. We have a brain and a soul (or a spirit, if you will), as well as emotion and instinct—we can use all of these resources to discern our purpose in the world. No, we don't want to live in the repression of Hiding or the abandon of Reeling, but yes, we do want to live committed, meaningful lives.

  We're all searching for the kind of balance Elizabeth Alexander describes in “Equinox,” the kind grounded in the physical laws of the universe. The word “equinox” actually refers to the time of year when the sun crosses the earth's equator, so that the length of the day is virtually equal to the length of the night. It's a perfect division of light and shadow.

  The grandmother in the poem lies in an equinox of her own, poised between life and death. Like Lana Turner, she has collapsed—but unlike Lana, the grandmother does get up, if only for one last “wild/and eccentric” moment, when she rears back and slaps the nurse. We love the grandmother for that last, defiant slap at death (apologies to the nurse), for hanging on to that fierce will to live. She shows that to achieve balance between Hiding and Reeling we don't have to give up our wildness, our life force. We just have to know when to use it to good effect. We can't spend our whole lives buzzing about like dervishes, but we can't just live like dried husks either. Despite the strokes of loss or disappointment that fell us, we need to keep a vital spirit, full of venom and honey.

  Being vital means acting deliberately and thoughtfully, and with a certain playfulness. Sometimes you use a little honey, sometimes you use a little venom, but always you stop to think about your choices. You're not just reacting to
loss anymore; you're not just lashing out and grabbing wildly. Moving out of Reeling means growing up, trying to live according to your convictions, allowing yourself a few mistakes and a little disorder in the process. You're learning to be yourself again—not too wanton, and not “too precise in every part,” just human, full of a “wild civility” (Robert Herrick, “Delight in Disorder”).

  You're ready to take on the hard work of slowly building who you want to be—and to realize you're not working alone. Each man in Mark Doty's “At the Gym” hoists some burden he's chosen, pushes the weight skyward in an attempt to gain some power over his flesh, “which goads with desire,/and terrifies with frailty.” Each one is scared that he wants so much from life and can be hurt so badly by it. But even though the work for each man feels like his struggle alone, he can see—others have left their “salt-stain spot” on the bench, too, and others will come later.

  Like the men at the gym, we're all trying collectively “to make ourselves:/something difficult/lifted, pressed or curled.” And it's not just because of our vanity or because we think we deserve perfect lives—it's something more tender than that. We all want to “sweat the mark/of our presence” into the world, to be part of something bigger than ourselves. We're ready to leave the frenzy of Reeling and start shaping our purpose in the world.

  The Wave

  As when far off in the middle of the ocean

  A breast-shaped curve of wave begins to whiten

  And rise above the surface, then rolling on

  Gathers and gathers until it reaches land

  Huge as a mountain and crashes among the rocks

  With a prodigious roar, and what was deep

  Comes churning up from the bottom in mighty swirls

  Of sunken sand and living things and water—

  So in the springtime every race of people

  And all the creatures on earth or in the water,

  Wild animals and flocks and all the birds

  In all their painted colors, all rush to charge

  Into the fire that burns them: love moves them all.

  VIRGH.

  (Trans. Rubert Pinsky)

  Down, Wanton, Down!

  Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame

  That at the whisper of Love's name,

  Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise

  Your angry head and stand at gaze?

  Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach

  The ravelin and effect a breach—

  Indifferent what you storm or why,

  So be that in the breach you die!

  Love may be blind, but Love at least

  Knows what is man and what mere beast;

  Or Beauty wayward, but requires

  More delicacy from her squires.

  Tell me, my witless, whose one boast

  Could be your staunchness at the post,

  When were you made a man of parts

  To think fine and profess the arts?

  Will many-gifted Beauty come

  Bowing to your bald rule of thumb,

  Or Love swear loyalty to your crown?

  Be gone, have done! Down, wanton, down!

  ROBERT GRAVES

  To His Coy Mistress

  Had we but world enough, and time,

  This coyness, lady, were no crime.

  We would sit down, and think which way

  To walk, and pass our long love's day.

  Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

  Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

  Of Humber would complain. I would

  Love you ten years before the Flood:

  And you should if you please refuse

  Till the conversion of the Jews.

  My vegetable love should grow

  Vaster than empires, and more slow.

  An hundred years should go to praise

  Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.

  Two hundred to adore each breast:

  But thirty thousand to the rest.

  An age at least to every part,

  And the last age should show your heart.

  For, lady, you deserve this state;

  Nor would I love at lower rate.

  But at my back I always hear

  Time's wingéd chariot hurrying near:

  And yonder all before us lie

  Deserts of vast eternity.

  Thy beauty shall no more be found,

  Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

  My echoing song; then worms shall try

  That long preserved virginity:

  And your quaint honour turn to dust;

  And into ashes all my lust.

  The grave's a fine and private place,

  But none, I think, do there embrace.

  Now therefore, while the youthful hue

  Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

  And while thy willing soul transpires

  At every pore with instant fires,

  Now let us sport us while we may;

  And now, like am'rous birds of prey,

  Rather at once our time devour,

  Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

  Let us roll all our strength, and all

  Our sweetness, up into one ball:

  And tear our pleasures with rough strife

  Through the iron gates of life.

  Thus, though we cannot make our sun

  Stand still, yet we will make him run.

  ANDREW MARVELL

  The Nectarine Poem

  If I were a nectarine

  would you be happy?

  You, with your permanent press shirt

  your dusty brown loafers with the pennies missing

  you could bite down on me and

  the juice would run down the edges of your moustache and

  drip down

  onto your heart.

  Your shirt would be stained with me

  as I am stained with you

  my darling, my honeydew

  if I were a nectarine.

  If I were an orange

  would you be happy?

  You could peel off my skin!

  You could stand in some farmer's yard

  You could steal me

  You could take advantage of the night to

  pluck me, boldly

  from some farmer's tree; I would taste the sweeter

  for being forbidden fruit

  as do you

  my darling, my kumquat

  my overripe grapefruit too long on the limb

  my Tom.

  If I were a button—not a fruit—

  a button

  missing off your precious permanent press shirt

  and you found me

  wedged

  between the stairway and a pair of your wife's navy blue pumps

  you could bite me

  you could bite down so hard you would break your tooth

  as I have been broken, by you

  my darling, my broken toothed angel

  my faulty, irregular lover

  my Torn.

  If I were a me,

  a me,

  me with big teeth and red sweater and

  hair the color of thousand island dressing,

  a feminist, a rhubarb,

  would you be happy?

  You could bite into my fuzzy neck

  and the juice would run down to my sweater but

  would you sit down with me

  with the silence so big it's a sound

  and the wanting so big it's a weight

  that when I stand up

  there's that rush of downward stickiness

  as I want to melt, with you

  my darling, my twotiming truffle

  my bitter melon

  my Tom.

  CAROLYN CIREEDON

  Pub Poem

  If I hold my breath for a million ebbing years, little oyster

  waiting my tables, fighting the tide, swimming to hope

  and still I can't open you up
, love

  I'll marry the fat red tomato

  I got from an infatuated farmer who waits pleasantly

  with knife and fork, to eat me.

  I'll marry the warm brown York, where naked swimming

  is like breathing, a priority, and only as dangerous

  as the softshell crabs slipping away on the sandy floor of the river.

  I'll marry my worn work shirt, stained with

  Corona and crabcake

  and sweat and a little smear of cocktail sauce like a margin.

  I'll marry each lonely marine I wait on,

  he and I will picture a possible me, painting my toenails

  bloodred in a trailer, waiting for him,

  for the slippery click of the lock;

  knowing it now, we look away.

  I'll marry the teasing moon whose bright vowels dance on the water

  like the Yorktown Slut, promising everything

  sighing, before she slips away

  what if, what if.

  I'll engage my boss on his boat in thoughts of brastraps

  and panties and other wistful trappings

  which become, like breathing, a priority.

  I'll marry each barnacle I scrub

  bare, barely staying afloat,

  while the bass slip away past the rockabye boat

  and the waves whisper

  dive under, dive under, seduction is rare,

  seduction is hope.

  I'll marry the Pub, and slop icecold mugs of beer

  onto men whose eyes seem to say that I too, am replaceable.

  My sneakered feet will slip, I'll wed the salted floor that way—

  slide into the sun and marry the day.

  I'll marry the bent mirror in the back

  where I pin up my marmalade hair

  and stare at lips as red as cocktail sauce

  the round everpresent planet of mouth

  and fragile freckled arms who miss the man who slipped away.

  I'll marry my beautiful brown teacher whose letters,

  which say angst is my downfall, I read on the sneak

  on a Budweiser box amongst the dead clams and unconsummated lemons

  in the back of the Pub; I'll marry my downfall.