Ross Gay, “Ode to Drinking Water from My Hands”

Ross Gay Cover better


Odes are songs of praise, to a person or an event or an object – a wedding poem, or epithalmium, is a kind of ode, as are a lot of nature poems. Often, an ode can be a way to meditate on what makes the subject worth praising, so the topic can be less direct than the title implies. For example, the way I read John Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale,” the real subject of praise is how we lose ourselves (briefly, fleetingly) when encountering something truly beautiful. You could say the nightingale is a vehicle for the poet’s praise of the feeling of losing oneself. There are also contemporary poems where the term “ode” is used ironically, as in Damian Rogers’ “Ode to a Rolling Blackout,” the subject of my last post.

The great 20th century Chilean poet Pablo Neruda wrote a series of Odes in the early 1950s that are some of his most plain-spoken and accessible poems. If you’ve had trouble getting past the lush surrealism of Neruda’s Love Sonnets or the more epic scope of his Canto General, the Odes are a great place to start. Partly motivated by a political desire to speak to (and on behalf of) common people, Neruda wrote odes to mundane things like “Ode to My Socks,” “Ode to Broken Things,” and “Ode to the Tomato,” praising their usefulness and lack of pretention, but also elevating their commonness by focusing his lyrical attention on them. The poems are also full of whimsy and joy and often a bit of nostalgia. He expresses regret that we have to “assassinate” the tomato to enjoy its freshness, and wonders at how his clothes “make me what I am” and vice versa (I’m using an old translation edited by Nathaniel Tarn). A teacher of mine once remarked that Neruda wanted to eat the world, and there’s something boldly loving in these poems that is only matched in my reading experience by Walt Whitman.

I mention Neruda because he’s clearly one of the presiding spirits for Ross Gay’s Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, the book from which this poem is drawn, and which contains a number of odes and praise-songs. The impulse to praise the simple and straightforward, even perhaps a socio-political desire to elevate the mundane by focusing poetic attention on it, is similar in both poets. But there are also some interesting points of departure. For one thing, Gay’s odes are mostly about actions rather than things. Neruda’s tomato, clothes, and yellow bird become Gay’s “Ode to Sleeping in My Clothes,” “Ode to Buttoning and Unbuttoning My Shirt,” and here, drinking water with his hands. I want to explore this difference, but first here’s the poem:


Ode to Drinking Water With My Hands


which today, in the garden,

I’d forgotten

I’d known and more


I’d learned and was taught this

by my grandfather

who, in the midst of arranging

and watering

the small bouquets

on mostly the freshest graves

saw my thirst

and cranked the rusty red pump

bringing forth

from what sounded like the gravelly throat

of an animal

a frigid torrent

and with his hands made a lagoon

from which he drank

and then I drank

before he cranked again

making of my hands, now,

a fountain in which I can see

the silty bottom

drifting while I drink

and drink and

my grandfather waters the flowers

on the graves

among which are his

and his wife’s

unfinished and patient, glistening

after he rinses the bird shit

from his wife’s

and the pump exhales

and I drink

to the bottom of my fountain

and join him

in his work.


— from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015) 


If you’ve perused any of Neruda’s Odes, you can see right away that the form here is a direct imitation/homage – the short lines, the straightforward language. The form forces us to slow down, but not in a way that feels pretentious – to me it reads more like the deliberate, present-tense wandering of the imagination as it connects back to memory. The act of drinking from his hands, which the speaker is doing “today, in the garden,” reminds him of his childhood when he first learned this skill from his grandfather.

A little side-note about those first few lines – he’s telling us he’s forgotten these things (drinking from his hands, being taught how) as a way of telling us that he’s now remembered them. Just a neat little reversal as we go along, especially because it’s not only the skill that he’s now remembering.

So back to the question of actions versus things. In this poem, and in the other odes I’ve seen by Ross Gay, the action being praised isn’t significant in and of itself. This is in contrast to Neruda, who seems to want to elevate the subjects of his attention, in part just by virtue of his attention. This is a little unfair to Neruda, but I get a vision when reading his Odes of all the little items of the world – marbles, pieces of string, dead mice – waiting outside his study hoping for him to bestow his poetic attention upon them. And that he would make time for them all if he could. Neruda’s vision (like Whitman’s) is all-embracing, and a little self-important.

Gay’s odes, on the other hand, don’t presume any kind of universalism. When he praises “drinking water with my hands,” there’s no presumption that this activity is as meaningful for everyone else as it is for him. (Notice how all of the titles of the Ross Gay odes I mentioned above include the word “my.” They are intended, without apology, to be specific to his own experience.) Drinking water with his hands today, in his own garden, reminds the speaker of his own grandfather watering graves – “mostly the freshest,” but also his own – and it’s that reminder that makes the action worthy of praise. The action calls forth a whole host of feelings of grief and love, not to mention the sensual memories that get brought up with it – the sound of water coming up the pipe with “like the gravelly throat / of an animal,” or the “lagoon” that appears in his grandfather’s hands. I love that word “lagoon,” how it evokes the massive size – in the speaker’s childhood memory – of his grandfather’s hands. These memories and feelings are what’s really being praised.

So weirdly, by focusing on an activity that is meaningful in his individual way, Gay’s efforts feel welcoming, open to participation by us as readers. Instead of a line of little items waiting for Neruda’s attention, I get an invitation: “This is how drinking water from my hands is meaningful for me; what simple actions are meaningful in this way for you?” I don’t personally have any strong memories connected to drinking water out of my hands, but reading this poem I’m reminded of cracking my knuckles with my own grandfather, holding up my hand to his to measure its size, and am tempted to write my own “Ode to Cracking My Knuckles,” to participate in a dialog with Ross Gay. So the poem evokes not just his own memories, but summons similar ones in a total stranger – that’s no small feat for a praise song. What might your memory be?


Damian Rogers, “Ode to a Rolling Blackout”


Cover image courtesy of Coach House Books.


Ode to a Rolling Blackout


Teachers in Oklahoma seek to stop students

from discovering the gateway of digital drugs.


We’re all having a hard time, but some problems

are preferable to others: the problems of the very rich,


for example. Some swear the pile is the only known

enemy of the hole. O pretty girls tripping on night,


enjoy this next round, as your pupils pour out

past last call. One of you will soon stop caring


for your hair and your delicates will start to sour.

You will pick your teeth clean with your coke nail.


Now you crackle like a coal, lips slick with petroleum.

Little pots of hot pink clink like crystal as you travel


down the black tube toward morning. Did you kiss

the devil’s ass in the alley? Please, no more questions.


            — from Dear Leader (Coach House, 2015)


Despite what literary scholars and theorists have been telling us for decades, it’s still a common natural impulse when reading poetry to look for the poet’s authentic experience in the subject matter. Knowing that Anne Sexton committed suicide adds a certain aura of authenticity to the anguish in her poems. But are poets under any obligation to deliver this kind of confession? Can we still be moved by a powerful poem about, say, a father’s death, if a poet writes it while both his parents are living? Of course. And yet, many readers still crave to connect a poem to the poet’s biography.

But in an age when over-sharing personal information is ubiquitous to our culture, then what avenue of self-exploration can still feel daring, powerful, even just resonant? The family secrets Robert Lowell unearthed in Life Studies are child’s play compared to the tell-all memoirs of the last few decades, and Sylvia Plath’s daddy issues are on full display on the internet. If all is revealed on Instagram, then what artistic purpose could a confessional mode provide? Or, to put it in another way, how does a lyric poet respond to this new situation? How can we touch on, or gesture toward, personal experience without descending into cheap diaristic navel-gazing?

One strategy that Damian Rogers employs in this poem, and one that I see a lot of elsewhere (including in my own work, I admit), is a coyness about how much of a dark truth is truly personal. We aren’t sure how many of the experiences being referred to here are “confessions” and how many are just within the realm of the poet’s imagination. And the blurriness of that line seems to be exactly the subject of the poem itself.

Starting with the second stanza of “Ode to a Rolling Blackout,” Rogers employs a war-weary older-sister tone that mixes flippant generalization (“We’re all having a hard time,” “some problems are…”) with the implication that real darkness lurks beneath the surface. Nothing personal is yet revealed, but she nevertheless lands on a brilliant, biting discovery: “Some swear the pile is the only known / enemy of the hole.” It’s a new aphorism that could be applied to everything from road repair to sexual politics to drug abuse and it hovers over the rest of the poem like a guiding principle: a pile of words in a poem fighting the hole of meaninglessness, a small pile of cocaine fighting a feeling of emptiness in the addict, etc. etc.

The speaker then turns her attention to address some “pretty girls tripping on night,” and this is where the poem really takes off. Forgive me if, to my English professor ears, this phrase reminds me of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land with its “O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, / Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.” The failed Romanticism of the two passages, and the warning that contains elements of longing, feels similar.

But the source of disappointment in Rogers’ poem is not quite so abstract or hifalutin as in Eliot’s work. The images that follow are of the various ways that some young women put themselves at risk in search of a “pile.”  Notice all the p’s in the next sentence: “O pretty girls tripping on night, // enjoy this next round, as your pupils pour out / past last call.” In a poem that hasn’t yet called a lot of attention to its musicality, it’s a notable moment of alliterative play, one that will recur later in the poem. But the music in use here is not a pretty one: multiple p sounds don’t really sound “beautiful.” They evoke something more like rough laughter or spitting.

Most of these “pretty girls” will likely survive their youthful misbehaviors “tripping on night” and the speaker seems to wish them well, but her interest zooms in on the one who will more dangerously lose her way: “One of you will stop caring // for your hair and your delicates will start to sour. / You will pick your teeth clean with your coke nail.” I love how the prim euphemism “delicates” contrasts with the more brutal and slangy “coke nail.” It’s as if the speaker herself can’t decide whose experience she most relates to – the one who strays too far or the one who observes her fall. The speaker’s knowledge is intimate enough that we wonder if she has been through it herself (how else would she know?) but she refrains from saying so explicitly.

In the next stanza the camera lens pans back out to the group of girls, and the image of their primping is almost repulsive – “lips slick with petroleum” – as she observes them leaving the bar “down the black tube toward morning.” The black tube could refer to the lipstick tube from the previous line, a subway ride home, or the more metaphoric tube/hole beckoning the young women out to the future. Within that space is the flashiest sonic music of the poem – “little pots of hot pink clink like crystal…” – that evokes for me both desire and disgust in the speaker who may view these younger women with something between worry and desire.

Her identification with the girls reaches its climax with the accusatory (or is it just gossipy?) “Did you kiss the devil’s ass / in the alley?” But that question seems to trip a protective wire in the speaker. She’s gone far enough, she doesn’t want to go farther, and so she shuts down her line of thought with “Please, no more questions.” It’s a wonderfully surprising line, because of course we haven’t been asking any questions. Nevertheless the speaker seems suddenly to feel our curiosity upon her, and she turns herself away. Weirdly it’s that moment of refusal that reveals the most vulnerability in the voice. We know that, in her opinion, “We’re all having a hard time,” and so we can guess she has problems of her own, but until she puts her hand up, it doesn’t occur to us to wonder how deep those problems go.

In some ways this turning away exposes more than any explicit confession might. I remember an acting teacher once saying that watching a performer struggle to hold back tears is often more moving to an audience than watching her cry on stage. It’s our sense of the forces in conflict that connects us to a performance. Similarly, in “Ode to a Rolling Blackout,” we feel the desire in Rogers’ speaker to claim connection to the “pretty girls” and their adventures, but we also feel her desire to refrain from divulging the sources of her hard-won wisdom. Her reticence, her refusal to “dish,” is as much what makes the speaker an adult as her ability to sidestep any ass-kissing in alleys.

This returns me to the question of authenticity. The speaker’s position between confession and restraint, identification and distance, seems to me the central subject of the poem. And so whether or not the speaker of the poem, or the “real” Damian Rogers, knows what it’s like to pick her teeth with her coke nail is less important than the feelings of trepidation, of empathy and worry, and even a bit of nostalgia for an earlier, more dangerous and exciting life, that the poet reveals and explores. How much does she really know about it? The sufficient answer for the poem is “maybe some.” And the more complete answer is none of your damned business.





Philip Metres, “Recipe from the Abbasid”


A common poetry classroom assignment is to write a “how to” poem, explaining some activity or recipe. It’s often a fruitful exercise because it forces us to pay close attention to detail, and invites us to think metaphorically about something mundane (“How to Tie a Knot” or “How to Draw a Perfect Circle“), or to think concretely about something more metaphoric or abstract (“How to Judge” or “How to Continue”). Here Philip Metres draws on a recipe found in Nawal Nasrallah’s Delights from the Garden of Eden: A Cookbook and History of the Iraqi Cuisine, which you can find out more about here. But aspiring chefs should probably go back to Nasrallah’s original text before attempting to feed their families – Metres has made some rather unappetizing alterations… Here’s the poem:


“Recipe from the Abbasid”


Skin & clean a fat, young sheep & open it

like a door, a port city hosting overseas guests


& remove its stomach. In its interior, place

surveyors in exploratory khakhi, a stuffed goose


& in the goose’s belly, a stuffed hen, & in the hen,

machine gun nests, C rations, grenades, a stuffed


pigeon, & in the pigeon’ belly, a stuffed thrush,

& in the thrush’s belly, contractual negotiations


& subtle threats, all sprinkled with sauce. Sew the slit

into a smile, dispatch handshakes. Add Chevron,


Exxon, Texaco, Shell. Place the sheep in the oven

& leave until this black slimy stuff, excretion


of the earth’s body, is crispy on the outside,

& ready for presentation.


— from Sand Opera (Alice James Books 2015), used by permission


I should mention before I dive in that Sand Opera includes poems that are much more wide-ranging and experimental than the one reproduced here. The first section, “abu ghraib arias,” is a mournful reexamination of the treatment of prisoners by United States servicemen and -women at the notorious prison of the title and at Guantanamo Bay, and includes text from a Standing Operating Procedure handbook, moving testimony from both Americans and former prisoners (some of it blacked out or partly erased), and texts from the Bible and the Code of Hammurabi. Other sections deal with Metres’ own conflicts between his American upbringing and his Arab heritage, and sometimes include such strange additional material as a floor map of a prison cell and a reproduction of Saddam Hussein’s fingerprints. All of this, especially as it accumulates, has a lot of impact, and there’s more to say about it all, but given the limits of my enterprise here, I thought it best to focus on something that can stand alone for readers. Please do go and check the book out further, though, because the collection feels particularly relevant today.

The metaphoric language being used as the poem begins appears at first to be in the service of vivid description– we are to open the sheep’s skin “like a door,” or perhaps like “a port city.” These similes might be a bit elaborate for a standard cookbook, but given the medieval source (more on the Abbasids shortly), and the fact that we know we’re reading a poetic rendering of the recipe, perhaps we should expect such leaps of language. I speak from experience when I say that over-thinking the correlation between a sheep’s internal organs and the structure of a port city is more fanciful than clarifying, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun.

Soon, though, we are instructed to insert “surveyors in exploratory khakhi” into the interior of the sheep, and our metaphor-making has to change direction. For a brief amusing instant I admit I wondered if this was some culinary idiom – if we can make “pigs in a blanket” or a chow mein noodle “bird’s nest,” why not “surveyors in khakhi”? But it doesn’t hold up and we realize that it’s the sheep, rather than the stuffing, that is becoming the metaphoric vehicle. We speed through historical tag-marks that point to European colonial rule (surveyors) to the Second World War (C rations and machine gun nests), and eventually to more modern representations of the “West”: “contractual negotiations & subtle threats.” All of this is clever enough for us to wonder what it is we are cooking, and we sense the ironic anger simmering under the veneer of hospitality. But this poem isn’t merely an anti-colonialist screed; in fact it contains a much more far-reaching and complex critique of power and wealth.

The Abbasid Caliphate, based mostly in Baghdad, ruled a large section of what we now call “the Middle East” from roughly 750 CE until the 1500s, and presided over what historians now often refer to as the Golden Age of Islam. From the development of algebra to The Book of a Thousand and One Nights, the Abbasids were the epitome of an advanced civilization. Only a culture with significant wealth and expertise could conceive of a recipe that includes (if we stick to the edible parts) a thrush inside a pigeon inside a chicken inside a goose inside a sheep. (It makes John Madden’s turducken puny in camparison!) On the one hand, it’s glorious. On the other, it’s absurd. And knowing how luxury has usually been built on the subjugation of others, it is easy to surmise that few in the Caliphate would have had access to the kind of delicacy referred to in this poem. The final line of the poem, “& ready for presentation,” makes it clear that we who are cooking this fabulous meal are probably not going to partake in it.

One of the secrets to the Abbasid’s success was its openness to the influence of other nations – particularly from Persia, but also China and elsewhere, east and west. So the lines “Sew the slit / into a smile, dispatch handshakes” seems to point the finger not just at the colonial power-brokers from elsewhere who exploited the region, but also at those who have been complicit in those efforts, welcoming them with traditional hospitality on the one hand, but an eye toward personal gain on the other.

So while the poem invites a familiar reaction against oil companies like Exxon and Shell, a closer reading reveals that rather than some sort of historical aberration, these corporations are merely the most recent in a series of powerful forces that have always exploited the region and its people, contributing to the suffering that in this poem is in the margins (although it takes center stage elsewhere in Sand Opera) but also patronizing the craftsmen, artists, and scientists whose achievements might appear in a 21st century recipe book. Can we create luxury without oppression? Will it be ever thus? How much more must we shove into that pathetic, accommodating sheep?

One final note regarding tone. A recipe tends to be written in the imperative case: do this, mix that, bake for 45 minutes. When we read these instructions we rarely find ourselves opposing them – “What do you mean I should pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees?!” But by the end of this poem, I find myself cultivating a kind of internal resistance, not just to the recipe itself (“No, I’d rather not add Chevron to my roast thanks”) but to the whole enterprise the recipe now refers to. Of course, the poem doesn’t provide an answer for how to separate the seemingly inextricable pairing of luxury and oppression. But by calling our attention to it, Metres encourages us to imagine a different recipe altogether that will feed everyone with generosity and taste.


Natalia Toledo, “Flower That Drops Its Petals”


If you are going to build a homemade hand grenade, you’d better do everything exactly right. Better not to do it all than to do it imperfectly. Most things aren’t like that, though. Good translation necessitates a compromise between the demands of the original poem, and the demands of its new language. There are always changes, losses, compromises. But just because there’s no such thing as a perfect translation doesn’t make the efforts of translators pointless. On the contrary, the effort to bring a poem into a new language can add to the readership of a fine poet, but also create something entirely original in its new linguistic home. Frost once quipped, “Poetry is what gets lost in translation,” but that may just be because he didn’t do much translating himself. He certainly read his fair share of translations, with pretty decent results.

Natalia Toledo is a well-known Mexican poet who writes in Zapotec, a language spoken by roughly half a million people, mostly in southwestern Mexico. There are plenty of resources online to learn about the history and grammar of Zapotec, as well as some of the efforts attempting to preserve it. But if you just want a quick taste of what it sounds like, you can hear some here, including two poems in the voice of Toledo herself.

Toledo translates the poems into Spanish, and in 2015 Phoneme Media published a book of Clare Sullivan’s translations into English which includes Toledo’s original Zapotec as well as the Spanish versions. (It’s a beautifully made book, by the way — read it one way to see the Zapotec and English, then turn it upside down to see the Zapotec against the Spanish.) Sullivan has the good fortune to be able to consult with Toledo herself about the poems, but they are still translations of translations, and so we are always seeing them through an opaque gauze, trying to fathom the nuances we are missing. For those of us who can’t read or speak Zapotec, we must ultimately approach the poems as poems in English, echoing or reflecting Toledo’s intentions rather than mirroring them exactly. The reflection will be warped, but if our translator does well, then the warped reflection will have its own beauty, intention, and meaning. So let’s have a look:


Flower that Drops Its Petals


I will not die from absence.

A hummingbird pinched the eye of my flower

my heart mourns and shivers

and does not breathe.

My wings tremble like the long-billed curlew

when he foretells the sun and the rain.

I will not die from absence, I tell myself.

A melody bows down upon the throne of my sadness,

an ocean springs from my stone of origin.

I write in Zapotec to ignore the syntax of pain,

ask the sky and its fire

to give me back my happiness.

Paper butterfly that sustains me:

why did you turn your back upon the star

that knotted your navel?


— from The Black Flower and Other Zapotec Poems (Phoneme Media 2015), used by permission of the publisher

One of the things I love about this poem is the mix of the strange and the familiar, and how Toledo brings us along from one to the other. The lyrical tone of the speaker at the beginning (“I will not die from absence”) is firmly in the romantic tradition – my first reading assumed the “absence” that she refuses to die from is the absence of a lover, and I don’t think that reading is ever fully dispelled, although other more complicated readings are added to it. So as a reader I begin with recognition.

The other familiar tactic in the opening lines is the reliance on the natural world to illustrate the speaker’s distress – “a hummingbird pinched the eye of my flower” is not an image I’ve encountered before, but the precision of the description, wild as it is, makes a kind of poetic sense to me. I’m not exactly sure what “the eye of my flower” is either, but with “my heart” in the next line, I can make an educated guess. Or to be more exact, I’m comfortable being in the vicinity of knowing what she means.

But things gradually get stranger as we move through the poem. I know what a curlew is (think of a sandpiper, with a long, curved, thin bill), but the idea that curlews somehow foretell sun and rain is new and odd, and I’m beginning to wonder if the speaker’s “wings tremble[ing]” is such a bad thing. The references to the creatures in the speaker’s home landscape are not only illustrating her distress, they seem to be providing her with the tools to resist it. So, after the repetition of “I will not die from absence,” my sense is that “a melody bows down upon my throne of sadness” seems to be a positive development, as does “an ocean springs from my stone of origin.” The way I read it, the power and fecundity of the ocean is going to help her fight off that potentially lethal absence.

By the way, here’s something I often catch in English translations of Romantic languages – the frequent use of the construction “the XX of XX.” In the tiny bit of Spanish I know, and a bit more in French, the words del, de, de la, du are so ubiquitous as to be almost invisible, the way we don’t notice if the word “the” occurs a lot in an English sentence. In English we tend to notice that construction after a few instances, so that “eye of my flower,” “throne of sadness,” “stone of origin,” and “syntax of pain” call attention to themselves a bit as Toledo’s imagistic technique. I sympathize with Sullivan’s challenges as a translator here, tbough, because if you replaced those phrases with “flower eye,” “sadness throne,” or “origin stone,” it would sound a bit too clipped, brutal, abrupt or for the lyric tone of the poem. But I thought I’d point it out as an interesting way that bringing a language into English presents the translator with unique difficulties. I suspect this wouldn’t be true with, say, a translation from Spanish to French.

Meanwhile I want to know more about this “stone of origin.” Because if an ocean springs from it, it’s clearly a source of bounty and assurance for our speaker. The mention of Zapotec in the next line supports the growing sense I have that this poem isn’t really about romantic heartbreak, but rather about cultural alienation. Why is writing in Zapotec a way “to ignore the syntax of pain”? Knowing that Toledo also speaks and writes in Spanish, we can deduce that Spanish has a painful syntax for her, no doubt partly because of the history of oppression and violence that speakers of Zapotec faced (and continue to face) in the language, laws, and sentences of Spanish. But the idea that the very syntax of Spanish is painful is more profound, because we ourselves are reading the poem via a Spanish translation that Toledo herself wrote. And we can imagine that Spanish syntax has infiltrated into her own mind and mouth. She is a contorted person, in pain in the syntax of Spanish, which nevertheless she must use in order for us to understand her.

But Toledo’s speaker refuses to perish under this, and because she has access to her native language, her declaration (in Spanish, and then in English) that she writes in Zapotec seems to be a way of explaining herself to outsiders like us, but also a way to work her way back to a language in which she can pray to “the sky and its fire” for happiness. Even through the double-gauze of two translations, we sense that the phrase that Sullivan has interpreted as “the sky and its fire” is likely a traditional one in Zapotec, perhaps with religious connotations. If her life in the broader world has forced her into a syntax of pain, this poem – and the others written in her first language – are her way back to the spiritual sources of her power and happiness.

The last sentence is mystifying in a way that delights me. The poem addresses some version of what we might call the speaker’s soul, metaphorized as a “paper butterfly.” But what is this paper butterfly? Is it a species of insect familiar to the region, or a reference to origami, a practice that must have been imported? And while the admonishment that she should not have turned her back on her star/heritage is one I’ve seen in other contexts, the image that illustrates it is again deceptively cross-cultural. “The star / that knotted your navel” seems to refer to both pre-Christian religious beliefs but also to more recent scientific discoveries about our origins in stardust. By reclaiming Zapotec, Toledo seems better able to live in and understand both the ancient and modern worlds.

Here I also want to give credit to Clare Sullivan for summoning the wonderful phrase “knotted your navel,” which feels like a new way to illustrate a birth metaphor that is cultural more than it is biological. It also has a wonderful bit of alliterative music that is not in the Spanish (“que anudaba tu ombligo”) but which I sense is there in the original: “beleguí biliibine xquípilu’.” You don’t have to be able to know how to pronounce that phrase to see all of the b’s, l’s and i’s playing off each other. So we have Clare Sullivan to thank for giving us a sense in English of what it might sound like for a Zapotec speaker to return to her language and culture in a way that will in turn help her face the rest of the world. It’s a gift that is only possible in translation.


Cassidy McFadzean, “You Be the Skipper, I’ll Be the Sea”



“You Be the Skipper, I’ll Be the Sea”


This time of year, Agamemnon’s

tomb is swarming with Beliebers.

If I was your boyfriend, Clytemnestra…

What’s the theme of this one, teacher?


We raised our iPhones in the dark

like gold-leaf masked talismans.

Our ringtones were a Greek chorus

calling from the hive to lion guards.


I’m a novel with the pages uncut.

Someone flipped me open and had enough.

Now reading me rips me in two.

What’s a poem for? What’s it to you?


Whoever said size don’t matter lied.

The shaft of the cistern in the hillside

had me on my hands and knees.

I lapped up clay with my teeth.


We were catamarans in my last fantasy,

skipped in this world like a stone over sea.

You stole me away from the treasury.

Freedom, Siri, was a machine.


— from Hacker Packer (McClelland and Stewart, 2015), used by permission

Cassidy McFadzean’s shimmering debut Hacker Packer dances between scholarly travelogue and a skewed but loving embrace of popular culture. Underneath the playfulness, however, there are more serious matters at stake. It’s easy to get distracted by the fun, but in “You Be the Skipper, I’ll Be the Sea,” the speaker has some serious concerns about love, power, and the imagination.

The poem finds us at Agamemnon’s Tomb among the ruins of Mycenae, taking in a scene with the incongruous combination of guide-book information and contemporary technological accouterments common to tour groups (I don’t need to explain that Beliebers are those fans who believe, with a perfect faith, in Justin Bieber, right?). McFadzean blurs the two influences on her experience so that Justin Bieber’s seduction song is directed at Clytemnestra and the gathering of tourists becomes something like the fans at a concert, holding up their iPhones in an act that feels more about worship than it is about light.

Some brief background: in Greek mythology and literature, Agamemnon is one of the kings enlisted to help return Helen from Troy. He assembles his fleet but for days there’s no wind. A priest finally tells Agamemnon that he must sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia in order to get things moving and he does so. Ten years (and many adventures) later, Agamemnon returns home (with treasure that includes the Trojan priestess Cassandra as a concubine), but his wife Clytemnestra has not forgiven him and, with her new lover Aegisthus, kills Agamemnon in the bath.

So if Justin is singing to Clytemnestra, is it in the voice of Aegisthus, pledging to treat her (and their offspring) better than her husband did? Or is it in the voice of a younger Agamemnon, making promises he will not keep? Either way, it’s unclear if our speaker approves. The last line of the stanza, “What’s the theme of this one, teacher?” suggests that like us she’s trying to figure out what this combination of impressions signifies. And who is this teacher? Is it a question for a tour guide? A playful wink to her travel companion? Or a recognition of us as readers, hovering over her shoulder, tempted to educate her?

Some further background, lyrics to Justin Bieber’s “If I Was Your Boyfriend”:

          If I was your boyfriend, I’d never let you go,

          I can take you places you ain’t never been before,

          Baby, take a chance or you’ll never ever know,

          I got money in my hands that I’d really like to blow,

          swag swag swag on you


Or if you prefer, see the video for the song here:

You might also be aware that Justin Bieber, famous since childhood for his sweet voice and man-boy persona, has more recently run into trouble for some of his more outrageous antics, including vandalismdangerous driving, and assault.

In other words, Bieber and Agamemnon have some things in common. They are both deeply flawed, larger-than-life male figures who attract our attention and admiration despite (and even partly because of) the wrongs they commit. Agamemnon’s military prowess and his loyalty to his male compatriots outweigh the damage he does to the women who rely on him. And Bieber’s physical attractiveness, wealth and fame outweigh his sophomoric destructive misdemeanors. Can we learn about the standards of masculinity in cultures from which these “heroes” emerge?

But back to the poem. In the second stanza McFadzean has some more fun conflating the contemporary worship of a celebrity like Justin to the worship of a warrior king like Agamemnon. iPhones like talismans, ring tones like a chorus. In the hands of a lesser poet, this comparison, and the fun implications that can be made from it, would suffice. The poem would end there.

But out of nowhere the third stanza starts with what looks like another quotation – you could be forgiven for assuming, on first reading, that these three lines are more Bieber lyrics. But they’re much darker, and as far as I can tell, they’re not cut-and-pasted from any other source:

           I’m a novel with the pages uncut.

           Someone flipped me open and had enough.

           Now reading me rips me in two.

The references to a book with uncut pages puts us somewhere historically between Agamemnon and Bieber. And the imagery, as well as the near rhyme of uncut/enough evokes the kind of heartbreak (with implied sexual violence?) that romantic poets and songwriters use. Is the speaker of these italicized lines the same one who is now at Agamemnon’s Tomb? Or is she referring to some other story or poem? Either way it suggests that our tourist has turned her attention away from the attention-getting men and is thinking more about those who pay the price for their behavior. And the stanza’s closing line: “What’s a poem for? What’s it to you?” continues the train of thought that first emerged with “What’s the theme of this one, teacher?” The question of what impact the poem might have, and the challenge to an interpreting “you” (who, me?!) is now something close to defiance and resentment.

In the fourth and fifth stanza things are changing direction very quickly, and the sentences are disconnected, seeming to refer to a few things at once. Is the “size matters” comment really about ancient water systems? Is McFadzean using a phrase like “had me on my hands and knees” deliberately in order to evoke images of sexual submission, despite the fact that she seems to be referring literally to exploring the site? Is the fantasy of catamarans skipping over the sea connected to the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter, or is it a romantic image of two lovers sailing together on their lives’ voyages? And most disturbingly, by admitting that “You stole me away from the treasury,” is the speaker connecting herself to Helen and Cassandra, to a legacy of sexual violence that persists even in contemporary pop lyrics?

The declaration at the end, “Freedom, Siri, is a machine,” feels like a final turn in the screw. On the one hand it seems to imply that the way to get freedom is to procure a machine. (Imagine an advertisement for Harley Davidson with that caption.) On the other hand, the sentence can also be read as a way of saying that “freedom” is merely another kind of machine, that it won’t necessarily protect us from the dangers present in the poem. The clincher of course is that it’s addressed to Siri, another semi-mythological machine with imperfect answers for our questions. Siri cannot provide us with companionship or love, nor will Siri leave an archeological footprint that tourists millennia from now might explore. Or has Siri been the companion we’ve been talking to all along?

We are left with a sense that McFadzean’s speaker is overwhelmed by the legacy of hero worship that can build magnificent tombs, launch global celebrity careers, and develop oracular technological tools, but cannot protect women from abduction or girls from their fathers. If she has a chance to find a way out it’s through her way of seeing the world that makes insightful connections between the disparate stimuli she encounters, and a shape-shifting, penetrating wit that has a reader delightfully off-balance throughout the poem.