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July 18, 2009

The Tongue (my take)

I wrote a little while back about how I found Karl Shapiro's "The Tongue" a rather flaccid piece (I reproduced it in that posting). It immediately set me to thinking how I might write about cunnilingus in that approximate style. It fell upon me to give it a go today. With Shapiro's anapests in my head I couldn't help the occasional echo, but for the most part I kept it to iamb and trochee, which feel to me a better fit for the luxury of the act.
 
The Tongue
 
As the head dropping on chocolate of tape—
Magnetic terrain of rhythm and rut—
Pinch roller fingers knead eager approach
Swelling to music is progress to what.

My tongue to the who in the arc of your voice,
To the hand caressing and guiding my ear,
Loops left wet behind my ascent
Anticipate pearly syrup of where.

Song and its caesure, vox humana,
Thigh, tongue, hand in tumescent blend
As the mouth creeps upon the open petals
Nectar and fragrance annihilate when.

—Uche
18 July 2009
Superior

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May 26, 2009

The Tongue

In my poetical wandering over the weekend I ran across Karl Shapiro's "The Tongue". He starts by getting the conceit all wrong, and even though it bears the execution of a fine craft piece, the result comes off a bit of a mess.
 

 
As a slug on the flat of the sun-heated clay, 
With the spit of its track left behind it like glass, 
Imperceptibly voyages, licking its way 
In the sinuous slime of itself to the grass, 
 
So my tongue on the white-heated wall of your thigh 
Licks its belly across, and the path of my slime 
Lies in ribbons of passion, the wet and the dry 
Overlapping to mount to the leaf of its climb. 
 
And the mouth and the mouth and the tongue and the tongue 
And the fishes that feed in the joy of our oil 
And the slug of our wetness finds green food among 
The hair-forests of longing where serpents uncoil.

 
You can see how the cleverness dampens the sense, something I often struggle with myself. This is a large part of the reason why Shapiro, despite his technical skill, has never been as celebrated as he should be. He tries to use a sprinkling of words ("passion", "longing") to mend the detachment of the conceit of the slug, which could never hope to transport the idea of a tongue inching towards cunnilingus.
 
The piece pretty much cries out for a rival metaphysical poet's response.  And it should serve as a lesson to me.

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