~DAVID GRAHAM~
VOLUMINOUS UNDERWEAR;
OR, WHY I
WRITE SELF-PORTRAITS
At root in all the
controversies
that swirl perennially about the lyric "I"
and its particular
embodiment
in so-called confessional verse
is this inevitable gap
between
what we as readers typically want ÷
including honesty, truth,
and
reality ÷ and what a poem can provide,
which is at best some
stylized
version of such things. It is not merely
the unsophisticated
common reader
who fudges or forgets the difference
between map and
territory, either;
witness the many reviews of Ted Hughes's
Birthday Letters that
concentrated
not on assessing the poems but on reviewing
the life, frequently
bestowing
great moral approval or disapproval upon
its author for matters
that,
strictly speaking, lay entirely outside the book proper.
I am
somewhat
surprised to realize that I have been writing self-portrait poems, with
varying degrees of obsession, for about twenty years. Easy
enough,
I suppose, to resort to Thoreau's quip on the first page of Walden:
"Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by narrowness of my
experience."
Even more to the point, however, may be his stringent remark on that
same
page regarding his liberal use of the pronoun "I," which in the context
of early nineteenth-century literary proprieties, required at least a pro
forma apology:
In most books the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it
will
be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference.
We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always
the first person speaking.
A great deal of misguided
discussion
of confessional poetry could begin to be cleared up, I feel, by
attending
closely to the truth, even the truism, of what Thoreau is saying
here.
For personas, third person, and various dramatic devices are no warrant
against egotism and self-enclosure; nor is the first person invariably
a limiting or solipsistic option. As I will suggest, also, I tend
to think of "the self" as something akin to a persona.
Of
course,
Thoreau immediately proceeds to muddy the waters when he calls for a
writer
to offer "a simple and sincere account of his own life," as if such a
thing
were possible. The romantic extravagance of this call to
sincerity
certainly dates the passage nicely, grounding it in a typically
American
strain of Romanticism. Yet before we condescend to Thoreau and
other
idealistic writers of his era, we should attend to the complexities,
even
the contradictions present in their works. Certainly I would be
reluctant
to apply either adjective ÷ simple or sincere
÷ unreservedly
to Thoreau's book. Its simplicity is belied by numerous kinds of
stylization and literary artifice, including the usual omissions and
shadings
common to every memoir; its sincerity is questioned on nearly every
page
by Thoreau's habitual irony, hyperbole, and wordplay. But we
don't
have to go so far to undercut this famous call to simple
sincerity.
Let me complete the sentence I quoted selectively from a moment ago,
and
take it to its ironic conclusion:
Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last,
a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely
what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he
would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived
sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me.
My own reading of this
famous jab
is that it does more than suggest that sincerity is a rare commodity,
or
that Thoreau himself lives among particular hypocrites. It
implies
a huge and inevitable gap between what we ask of a writer and what any
given writer can accomplish. (I would not exempt Thoreau himself
from this generalization, and doubt if he would have claimed absolute
sincerity
for himself, either, though there are certainly passages in Walden
that could be taken to do so.)
At
root
in all the controversies that swirl perennially about the lyric "I" and
its particular embodiment in so-called confessional verse is this
inevitable
gap between what we as readers typically want ÷ including
honesty, truth,
and reality ÷ and what a poem can provide, which is at best some
stylized
version of such things. It is not merely the unsophisticated
common
reader who fudges or forgets the difference between map and territory,
either; witness the many reviews of Ted Hughes's Birthday Letters
that concentrated not on assessing the poems but on reviewing the life,
frequently bestowing great moral approval or disapproval upon its
author
for matters that, strictly speaking, lay entirely outside the book
proper.
Like most
poets, I suppose, I began writing with a certain innocence, attempting
to capture the uncapturable flux of experience, often enough taking as
subject my own paltry experience and rendering it
melodramatically.
To this extent, I guess that many of us begin in a raw confessional
vein.
Long before I had read Robert Herrick, or even Anne Sexton, Top 40
radio
had provided me with a fairly clear understanding of the lyric mission
÷ and not an entirely naïve sense of things, either, for
from the
start, I instinctively grasped the fictive nature of the
enterprise.
I knew quite well that the tuneful lovesick groans of the pop singer
stood
for a certain emotion; they didn't mean that the singer was actually
weeping
in the recording studio.
Some two
decades ago, having outgrown, or so I hoped, my adolescent
self-absorptions,
I conceived of a poetic experiment, an open-ended series of
self-portraits.
As far as I can sort out my motives at this remove, I think my impulses
were not very confessional. In fact, they were rather aggresively
the reverse. My immediate inspiration was not my own life, but a
book that collected Rembrandt's lifelong series of self-portraits,
which
struck me as a fascinating project. During his working life,
Rembrandt
painted, etched or drew his own likeness as main subject nearly one
hundred
times. We can watch his image pass through a rich variety of
moods
and postures. He takes palpable pleasure in trying on an array of
often sumptuous costumes, including swords, gold chains, velvet gloves,
furred capes, and an amazing collection of hats. He scowls,
preens,
laughs, holds up a dead pheasant, and lifts a beer in toast. And
while some of the later paintings in particular are haunting in their
portraiture,
fearless in documenting the effects of age on the artist's body, quite
a few would have to be called frivolous. Paging through the book,
my first impression was that this was an elaborate game of dress-up.
For which
is
the essential Rembrandt? Is it the deep-eyed old burgher calmly
looking
at us from some of the late paintings, or is it the impish young man
practicing
facial expressions like a boy at the mirror ÷ joy, surprise,
anger, and
so on ÷ in a series of tiny etchings? How do we reconcile
the severity,
even the spirituality of the 1659 portrait in the National Gallery in
Washington,
D.C., with the foppish figure in The Hague's 1634 painting, with
his glittering ear ring, feather-plumed silk hat, and not quite
convincing
expression of courtly charm?
I
hope
it is obvious that we reconcile such moods and attitudes according to
Whitman's
timeless brag ÷ for Rembrandt, too, is large, and contains
multitudes,
including a capacious taste in hats. So do we all. I was
attracted
both to the experimental nature of Rembrandt's project ÷ its
variety of
style, stance, and medium ÷ and also to its
open-endedness. So I
embarked on my own poetic version, aiming to try on as many metaphoric
hats as possible, and with no plans to cease until the poetry itself
does.
If, along the way, I successfully document elements of my own changing
body and soul, that certainly will be a personal inducement, if not
sufficient
reason for persisting. If one motive remains inescapable
self-regard
÷ and if in a sense I remain a boy in front of his mirror trying
on different
expressions ÷ the technical challenge of theme-and-variations
has from
the start engaged me just as deeply. My subject has been readily
at hand, just as Thoreau suggests. What better way to focus on
elements
of poetic craft than holding up the mirror repeatedly to one's most
familiar
realities? In a very real sense, I see my self-portraits as among
the least revealing poems I have done, not simply because they are all
as posed and static as a wedding photo, but also because my goal in
writing
them has been to explore aesthetic more than personal issues.
Well, of
course no one believes this. And I confess I only half-believe it
myself. No one believed it when John Berryman claimed not to be
Henry,
either, but I did; or, at least, I half-believed it. It is that
very
ambiguity that has often felt like the animating spark of my
self-portraits,
in which I conceal by selectively revealing, and vice versa. Few
would care to sort out these paradoxes even if they could, and it's
true
that the details of my actual or poetic lives are seldom rich with the
sensational. If any of my self-portraits have succeeded as poems,
I believe it must be because they have managed the dramatic sleight of
hand that has always been at the heart of the lyric, which engages the
personal and the local in order to illuminate and animate something
larger.
My poems are little dramas, stylized and shaped as best I can; they are
also full of intimate explorations. In them, I literally confess
that I am no confessional poet. Good luck sorting out the
tensions
here; I can barely do so myself.
Here is
one of my earliest self-portraits that was conceived as such.
American Gothic
I was christened from a telephone directory,
because my parents wanted a name no one had,
at least in this family. My first word was "bug."
Left in my playpen to drool and chatter
I posed stuffed animals for imaginary photos.
Soon I was singing songs invented
according to traffic signs. I loved
"yield," "go stop slow," and "squeeze left,"
all of which were possible in the back seat.
Down by the railroad tracks I churned hot gravel
fist to fist, awaiting the five-car freight.
In stores downtown I said "Charge it"
and my father's name. My school grades
were printed in the daily newspaper.
Mom kept her old address book a secret,
hidden under her voluminous underwear
in a dark oak dresser. Of course I peeked,
I was meant to, but I do not think
I was supposed to fall in love
with the brown-gray photos of that college girl,
strange as late night movies. I was young
but her truth was younger. And Dad
kept his secrets some place I never found,
though it's possible I didn't look hard,
as I turned away my eyes each time
he rose dripping from the bathtub.
And if I memorized sex manuals,
and if I caressed pillows and
practiced kissing mirrors, I can't remember.
What I remember are the dogs,
Eager, Loyal, and Foolish÷teaching them
to worship the hoops they leaped through.
When I look at this poem
now, twenty
years after composing it, I recognize some details lifted directly from
my own life, some recomposed from family stories, some made up from
whole
cloth, and some I'm not entirely sure about. No one but me and
perhaps
my immediate family will recognize one of my nieces masquerading as me
in this poem, and me masquerading as a beloved family friend in an
episode
from his own childhood. As near as I can recall, the poem's
gentle
spoofing of Freudian readings of childhood was grafted onto some
memories
of my own that were perhaps too precious for me to deal with in
anything
but an ironic stance. And as the title's echo of Grant Wood's
deeply
strange painting was meant to indicate, the whole performance is
conscious
of itself as performance, even as it hoped to create something iconic
out
of the raw materials of my own small-town childhood.
Naturally,
this was the poem that my college magazine chose to represent my book Magic
Shows when it appeared; and unfortunately they reprinted it under
the
headline "Oedipus at Home." This occasioned a mock-angry phone
call
from my mother, after she had endured some fierce ribbing from family
and
friends, some of which was no doubt occasioned by the magazine's focus
on the Oedipal aspect, but much of which was fastened on my sonorous
adjective
in the phrase "voluminous underwear." Of course, I chose the word
for its sound as much as for its meaning, but this was no defense, nor
should it be. My attempt to justify it in terms of point of view
fared little better. Much as I protested that I was simply
dramatizing
a boy's sense that everything about his parents, including
Mom's
underwear, is of mythic size, I was only half-convincing. My
airing
of this particular dirty laundry was and was not forgiven, as it was
and
was not serious in the first place, as my mother was and was not mad at
me. I do not claim that this is a great poem, a complex one, or
even
one of my best, but it strikes me as a fitting case study about the
difficulties
of sorting out the strands of reality and sincerity in what is called
confessional.
Similar
mixtures of fact and fiction occur in most of my self-portraits,
naturally.
Looking over the poems now, I note that the degree to which they are
even about
my life varies considerably. In "Self-Portrait with Stage
Fright,"
for instance, I reveal almost nothing of my intimate life, and the poem
relates only tangentially to my actual experience.
Self-Portrait with Stage Fright
This isn't my real personality
standing up half casually
to talk about myself. Usually
I'm sparrow-skittery,
shy as water through
my own fingers÷
just ask my mother,
if you can find her; that's her
hunched in the back row
or two steps from the door.
Usually dew glazes my lip
when everyone's looking,
sleet thrums my stomach,
a regular hailstorm
in my knees.
What can I give you
but dark inklings
you already know
or a twinge or two
out of history? What is
my stammering hello
but a code for farewell?
Wouldn't you rather watch
buzzards circle their roosting tree?
Without past, without regard
they swirl as black snowflakes
in one of those bubble villages
that live on coffee tables.
Shake them and they perform.
Shake me and I'm gone.
Like every teacher,
poetry reader,
or other public performer, I occasionally experience nervous feelings
when
I stand in front of an audience, but in truth, I have never suffered
from
true stage fright; for if the term means anything, it must refer to
something
extraordinary, a nearly paralyzing resistance to performance. In
any documentary sense, then, this self-portrait is a blatant fib.
This is true even though there are, as usual, some details drawn from
my
life. My shy mother, for example, often does prefer to sit near
the
exit at a concert or lecture, in case she is overwhelmed by the desire
to flee. She rarely is, but that is probably because she is
sitting
comfortably near an exit. In any case, at the time I wrote this
poem,
she had never heard me give a poetry reading.
I
made
up a case of stage fright, I suppose, in part because it seemed a
convenient
metaphor for the strangeness of self portraiture, the complicated dance
of revelation and concealment involved in writing an an
autobiographical
vein, and then, of course, presenting such a dance in public. I
don't
experience stage fright, exactly, but I do feel the absurdity and
self-promotion
inherent in the practice of the poetry reading, along with the usual
self-doubt
about the quality of both work and performance.
When I
have read this poem publicly ÷ and I also wrote it, in part,
precisely
to read aloud to audiences ÷ listeners have tended to assume
that it is
a piece of confession, or at least that I used to suffer from
stage
fright. I alow them to think so, even though it seems to me that
the poem tries to ironize the pose of sincerity so common at poetry
readings,
as the poet with genial and often self-deprecating humor presents what
we are meant to understand as lyrical profundities. It seems to
me
that the confessional impulse itself is an odd blend of vulnerability
and
brazenness. This poem conducts its ironic commentary in the form
of that most comfortable ritual of the contemporary poetry reading: the
between-poems banter in which the poet attempts to charm the audience
and
deflect any impression of undue egotism or self-absorption that the
poems
themselves may justifiably have created.
And
finally,
a recent poem that began in the self-mocking vein of "American Gothic"
with some writerly whining, but arrived, much to my surprise, at a
wholly
different tone:
Self-Portrait as Runner Up
I've never been a shoe-in. I'm always flappable,
and when I make a joke it's like fumbling
for change. My motto is Yes, But.
I'm everyone's third choice, and rightly so,
because I couldn't blaze a trail
in butter. Most of my twenties
I spent paging through catalogs,
my thirties struggling with a stuck zipper.
Now, in my cruise-control forties,
I seem to watch the weather channel
in my sleep. I've never gone
without saying. Believe me, I need
plenty of introduction. When the comet
everyone's mad about appears
in the northern sky, I see lint,
a dim and vaguely luminous idea,
celestial smudge on my glasses.
Still, more and more mornings I wake
and let the cracks and cobwebs
on the ceiling swim for a moment
in my blurred, dread-stirred eyes.
Then rise with a relish past fame
to tend a fire as common as it seems rare.
In this
case, my sincerity was accidental. I simply intended to write a
jokey
poem about being so frequently an also-ran, an honorable mention, or a
semi-finalist ÷ an experience I find that most contemporary
poets are apt
to jest self-consciously about. And yes, it did occur to me that
this might also be a fun poem to present at poetry readings. But
in the process of writing, improvising on my theme, I more or less
blurted
out the final stanza, thus ruining the joke and veering away from any
sort
of a punch line. It didn't take me long to recognize that I had
inadvertently
veered into honesty, though it was an honesty that probably could not
have
emerged from intention. I let it stand. Although the poem
originated
from a desire to charm, I find that whether it is touching, funny, or
even
successful to anyone else doesn't matter much to me now. Of
course,
no one will ever believe this. Nevertheless, the poem does seem
like
a gift to me. I imagine that Rembrandt, too, in the process of
trying
on all those silly hats, might have occasionally had a similar
experience.
© by David Graham