You can incarcerate them, slow them down, get away with the old Apartheid routine, but for a time only. [Sidenote: I was reminded of Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise" while reading this sentence.] As soon as they begin to speak, at the same time as they’re taught their name, they can be taught that their territory is black: because you are Africa, you are black.

This essentializing viewpoint describes the process of colonization, segregation (and the “old Apartheid routine”) as well as other ways in which “whiteness” has powered over – in fact has written over – “blackness” and other racial and ethnic differences. She continues to give the reasoning behind the atrocities:

[These women are taught] Your continent is dark. Dark is dangerous. You can’t see anything in the dark, you’re afraid. Don’t move, you might fall. Most of all, don’t go into the forest. And so we have internalized this horror of the dark.

After pointing out the stereotypes surrounding this racialized other (and this is my favorite part), Cixous decides to vocally reject these notions of fear, repression, and ignorance. She does not avoid the dark forest, unafraid of the difference constructed by our cultures. She speaks up against other-ization by attempting to embody the voice of the oppressed, which, as a(n angry) woman, she can do with some ease:

We the precocious, we the repressed of culture, our lovely mouths gagged with pollen, our wind knocked out of us, we the labyrinths, the ladders, the trampled spaces, the bevies – we are black and we are beautiful.

We’re stormy, and that which is ours breaks loose from us without our fearing any deliberation. Our glances, our smiles, are spent; laughs exude from our mouths; our blood flows and we extend ourselves without ever reaching an end; we never hold back our thoughts, our signs, our writing; and we’re not afraid of lacking.

…From now on, who, if we say so, can say no to us? We’ve come back from always.

As I read this, I think about bell hooks and her notions of talking back and speaking out, of spreading black female voices and infiltrating a world of writing which is still male- and white-centered. There is also an obvious Freudian allusion in the passage where she states, “we’re not afraid of lacking,” of being seen as inferior, of being ostracized for who “we” are. The intersection of race and gender (as well as sexuality because each is inseparable, especially when looking at Cixous’s texts) is present here and is being deconstructed to produce a new and transgressing viewpoint of blackness as beautiful and as something to be embraced rather than avoided. Cixous is stating that there is not a lack in oppression; there is no inherent fault or flaw in the individuals or in the race itself, but rather in the institution causing the fear of darkness.

Fox also looks at Cixous and her concept of ecriture feminine, or the act of writing woman, linking it to textuality by using “one text as de-constructive of another, itself in turn dissolved or reread” (6). One particular passage also reminded me of my sexuality and gender classes, contrasting Cixous’s philosophy concerning feminism with that of a Marxist and/or modernist viewpoint:

Unlike philosophies of resistance… which have grounded their logic of resistance in identity (membership of a class or gender), a concern with the intertext is a celebration of difference and the possibility that things can be otherwise. Such a politics of difference goes far beyond feminism and suggests the potential for resisting discourse, knowledge and power through intertextual practices. In the context of writing social research, it replaces objectivity with indeterminacy and the search for control and closure with generosity and openness.

Applying these notions to Daphne Gottlieb and her poetry comes in as less concrete and more conceptual (which itself is postmodern or queer in nature) in comparison to academic and social science writing. Poetry in Gottlieb’s sense is definitely a form of narrative work and/or claim of “truth” from a personal sense. She details her personal-is-political esque stories using language and formatting that is quite unique to her work yet also reminiscent of her influences, or her intertextuality. For example, drawing upon Cixous’s theories is a form of tracing the genealogy of her work even though the wording and very medium is different between the two women’s writing. Gottlieb engages in the process of writing her self, writing “woman,” and therefore celebrates the concept of difference over sameness, subjectivity over objectiveness. I enjoyed taking this article, which was clearly written with academia in mind, and using it as theory upon which to build my analysis of poetry in this project.

Members of both [queer and crip] groups have developed a wry critique of hegemonic norms. In queer communities, the application of this critique has been given its own verb: to queer. Queering describes the practices of putting a spin on mainstream representations to reveal latent queer subtexts; of appropriating a representation for one’s own purposes, forcing it to signify differently; or of deconstructing a representation’s heterosexism

She continues:

Both queering and cripping expose the arbitrary delineation between normal and defective and the negative social ramifications of attempts to homogenize humanity, and both disarm what is painful with wicked humor, including camp.

In the article, Sandahl uses cripping and queering as verbs in the process of “solo autobiographical performances” in which (in these cases) a member of the “crip” or differently-abled community uses his or her disability to point out the biases and normativity of the audience and society at large. Similarly, I see Gottlieb’s poetry in some cases as queering notions of language, poetry, and sexuality.

In her poem, “mastering the art of poetry,” (link to full text) I see three verbs that can be intertwined: mastering, queering, and writing. In a free-write exercize, I jotted down something that may or may not make sense out of context:

Queer writing, master narrative, poetic mastery,
Power over language and ideas of sexuality
She is queering, writing, and mastering sexuality in this poem

Basically, in the poem she describes the “art of [writing] poetry” as a BDSM-esque experience, a master/servant relationship in which the writer/poet makes the poem “beg or struggle” by pushing it to “the edge of what it can stand.” This is one of my favorites because it gives an honest and unorthodox approach to pushing one’s self to the limit when writing… describes the process of searching for new words, formatting, ideas, and audiences.

The following lines on the first page of the poem:

“listen to your poem’s desires / and get ready / to be powerful and terrible. / your poem is quivering in front of you / and your iron will / as it kisses the collar you hold”

can be contrasted with these from the end:

“hold that precious poem close / show it how much it has pleased you / and rest. give it your name / and kiss it / goodnight.”

in detailing the powerful but loving (or at least lustful) struggle between both a master/writer with her subject.

mastering the art of poetry

make sure you have everything
you will need
on hand:

pen     paper     of computer keyboard
dictionary     thesaurus     scissors (surgical)
tape     first-aid kit     plastic wrap
feathers     candles     clothespins
gag     rope     handcuffs
an assortment of whips
from fat thudding floggers
to bitey braided cats
maybe a wooden paddle
rubbing alcohol
piercing sharps
scalpel
a cane or two
and a riding crop.

got everything?
good.

negotiate,
negotiate,
negotiate.

if you want your poem to beg or struggle,
make that clear.
listen to your poem’s desires
and get ready

to be powerful and terrible.
your poem is quivering in front of you
and your iron will
as it kisses the collar you hold.

begin

start
slowly.

gradually.

maybe a little stroking, teasing pinches, a few
words chosen
carefully
go a long way.

now escalate.
if you started with your
gentlest, sweetest metaphor,
it’s time to build up to something a little
harder.

feel it? your poem opening up, reeling,
writhing, relinquishing control?
good.

take it right to the edge of what it can stand
then back off
then right to the edge
and back off again
up to a farther edge
as your poem swells
with the marks you leave on its skin

one thank you master
two thank you master
three thank you master

as you push it, drag it, hold it down
raise it up

THANK YOU MASTER

tell your poem
“you’re about to get a verb you’ll never forget, you little slut.”

tell your poem,
“I want to hear you scream.”

tell your poem
“you only get forty more words, you greedy bitch!”
and when it has taken all it can bear

hold that precious poem close
show it how much it has pleased you
and rest.  give it your name
and kiss it
goodnight.

kate gramlich to peek [Mar 6]

Hi Daphne, my name is Kate and I’m a graduating senior in sociology/women’s studies at Southern IL University in Carbondale. I’m currently taking a class on sexual diversity and for our semester paper I wanted to do a linguistic analysis of some of the poems in Why Things Burn. I was wondering if you have read anything by Helene Cixous, a french philosopher from the 70s, because her concept of writing one’s self and writing the body is what I’m mostly focusing on in context of your poetry. If not, I would definitely suggest checking out The Laugh of the Medusa You don’t need to respond if you’re busy, I mostly just wanted to let you know that I’ll be writing about your work and that I’m a huge (new) fan.

Thanks for your time, have a great weekend!
- kate
maymyheart@gmail.com

———————————————————————————

Daphne Gottlieb to me [Mar 13]

Hi, Kate-
Thanks so much for taking the time to write — I’m honored that you like my work. I do indeed know Cixous (and her Laugh of the Medusa is one of my favorite pieces of writing, bar none)! I’m sorry to be brief — I have repetitive strain which makes it difficult to respond at all — but I wanted you to know how delighted I am by your email.

Good luck with your work –

D

I met Daphne Gottlieb first at the Cafe Du Nord poetry slam and we had something resembling violent sex down the street in the bathroom stall of the Lucky 13. She sat on the toilet looking down on me as I lay on the floor, touching her boot.

“Usually,” she said. “I’m a lesbian.”

I had my first
lover
when I was
seventeen.
I locked
the door, turned on
the music
to drown out
any noise.
I  was          nervous.
It was          longer
than I’d expected;
Thicker.
Smooth and
pink. Eager.
Hard,
pulsating
Plastic.

Three Glorious
Speeds,
although we never
made it past the first
(that night.)
There I was,
breathless, flushed
pink and
pulsating.      Happy
Birthday, my
friend had said
when she handed
me the
box.

1.   Somehow the truth of our sexual lives lies in better communication: in telling all. There should be no ‘sexual secrets’. Tell your partner exactly what you desire. Tell your children every nook and cranny of the erotic world. Come out to your parents if you are gay, tell your teacher if you’ve been sexually abused, tell your therapist if your husband is a sex addict. Stand in the public square and shout through a microphone the story of your rape, or your abortion or your gayness. Go on television to announce your impotency, to demonstrate your sadomasochism, to reveal the innermost secrets of your heart, to get a ‘Blind Date’ or to find a ‘Hunk’. Tell, tell, tell. An intimate experience, once hardly noticed, now has to be slotted into the ceaseless narrating of life. If once, and not so long ago, our sexualities were shrouded in silence, for some they have now crescendoed into a cacaphonous din. We have become the sexual story tellers in a sexual story telling society (4).

I could not possibly agree more with this quote; I feel very lucky to be surrounded by many people who are comfortable (/brave/silly) enough to divulge intimate sexual details. I’ve talked about oral sex with my mom, sat for hours in my favorite cafe discussing orgasms with girl friends, swapped fantasies and experiences with partners, and just recently had an awesomely personal conversation with a teacher. It’s so incredibly refreshing and liberating to be open and honest in Real Live Conversations with people, often unexpectedly, and to feel a genuine connection through sexuality using words rather than touch.

2.   Power is a process that weaves its way through embodied, passionate social life and everything in its wake. Sexual stories live in this flow of power. The power to tell a story, or indeed not to tell a story, under the conditions of one’s own choosing, is part of the political process. (26, Emphasis original)

Reading Plummer’s connection between power and sexual stories made me instantly think of Daphne Gottlieb’s poetry. The way she paints pictures of her own sexuality and experiences – intensely highlighting some details while obviously omitting others – seems to be the embodiment of this particular quote. Plummer also states that power “flows into lives making some abundant in capacity… and others diminished” (26). This is particularly evident in poems such as “you never forget your first,” which I will be analyzing in detail in a later post. She recalls her “first” as an incredibly raw, abusive experience. I will come back to this quote and adjectives Plummer uses to describe these “abundant” and “diminished” situations.

My main concern is that this will be confusing or too jumpy, or on the other hand, that it’ll end up too rigid and conventional… it’s a damned if I do/damned if I don’t situation that only I am creating for myself. Perhaps this is one of the mental roadblocks that queer or progressive writers face: how do we balance? how do we avoid being “too extreme” AND “too boring”?

I feel like both Gottlieb and Cixous would be shaking their heads and saying “Fuck ‘em, just go for it.”

My baby keeps her hair
short.
Number 2 guard, 1/4 inch white oster clippers short
short hair.

Not I’m-depressed-and-I’m-going-to-shave-my-head short,
just short.

She’s got beautiful baby-short hair.
Baby short, not basketball-player short
or concentration camp short or
or military short or militant short:
not monk short
or cancer short.
Just
short.

Her gray hairs shine like
flashbulb filaments,
one for each brilliant
idea she has.

She’s getting more and more
gray. She says it’s my
fault.

My baby keeps her hair
short:
Nothing to cling to desperately,
nothing to get tangled up in.
My baby keeps her hair short–
she likes it that way
and so
do I.

I feel like Gottlieb is using hair, an aspect of the body, as a marker of an identity. She makes sure to distance her lover’s hair from both “military short” and “militant short,” images often tied to women with short hair, but does not create a hierarchy between the concepts; she just points out what Is (reminding me of the reading Safe Trip in which calling the narrator’s lover a bull dyke is like yelling “Trees!” at a forest).

Because hair (specifically long hair) is so closely tied to what could be considered hegemonic femininity, rejecting the ideal is a way of subverting gender norms. Although Daphne herself has long hair (from any pictures I’ve seen), which could lend itself at first glance to the butch/femme sexual stereotype, Daphne rejects that as well with her language usage. In other poems in which she is the first-person narrator, she uses strong and sometimes masculine language, which would tend to conflict with her outward appearance. Likewise, she refers to her short-haired lover as “my baby” repeatedly, calling her hair “beautiful” and “Baby short,” also conflicting with norms relating to such short of hair.

On a personal level, I love this poem because it deals with short hair as an identity marker. Although this may seem silly, as soon as I chopped my own hair off (which seems slightly longer than the subject’s in this poem) I immediately felt more connected to the “queer” label that I claim as an act of moving outside of the gender binary.