Tag: Haley Hodges

  • A Tender, Provocative Interweaving of Earthly and Divine

    Review: Eros Rex, poems by Haley Hodges, Orison Books.

    Brimming over with desire, Haley Hodges’ collection Eros Rex reverberates ‘like the plucked string of a lute’ (‘Innocence’) with stark, sensuous questions about Christliness and control.

    Hodges’ poems insist upon the reader’s attention in much the same way as the poetic voice demands attention from those who spark her desire, insisting upon an external authority to which power can be ceded. The headiness of many of Hodges’ poems stems from her depiction of the power within the giving up of power; the paradox of maintaining control by choosing to yield control. Again and again, the poetic voice issues commands – to religious authorities (‘Come climax / Christ, come Eros Rex’ in ‘Eros Rex’), to figures of amorous interplay (‘Make me your illumined cave / of wonders. Make me your clever girl’ in ‘Sapiosexual’) and perhaps to the reader, to the self, or both at once (‘Just try’ in ‘Maybe welcome it’). ‘Give me / the collar. Give me the crown,’ the voice commands in ‘Two Takes’, one of many images in which the wielding of control through the issuing of instructions is couched behind a veneer of subservience. And among the many imperative commands given to others, there are just as many expressions of internal desire, from the physical to the metaphysical. Perhaps the most evocative of these is found amidst the snow-covered world depicted in ‘Blizzard’, in which the poetic voice wishes for ‘snow Jesus / not acid Jesus’. As with many of Hodges’ most arresting phrases, the complexity of meaning brought forth despite the simplicity of the immediate image hits the reader as sharply as ‘Corrosive Christ’ (‘Blizzard’) eating away sin.

    There is an enjoyable purposefulness to the rather jarring juxtaposition of earthly and divine woven throughout the collection. The reader is immediately made aware that we will be oscillating between the grand and the everyday, the lofty and the mundane, through the contrast between the first and seconds poems. After the titular poem’s delicious portrayal of all-encompassing desire, extending beyond the mental and the physical to the realm of the spiritual (‘spasm / of the panting soul’), over the page we find ourselves among ‘plastic mustard packets’ and ‘five-/dollar duo deals’ – we have transitioned from the realm of Eros Rex to that of a different monarch, found much closer to home (‘Burger King’). This is one example of many in which Hodges seizes the control her poetic voice so clearly enjoys offering to others through her ability to keep her reader guessing, wielding her wit and unreserved boldness to great effect.

    Eros Rex oscillates between self-assured yielding in the name of pleasure and vulnerable exposure of the uncertainties of a soul adrift in a dark, unrecognisable ocean. While the likes of ‘Sapiosexual, ‘Master, Master’, ‘What was the best you ever had?’ and ‘Between the jaws’ confidently offer up a knowing eroticism with a certain glint in the eye, these are counter-balanced by the quiet stillness of ‘Heart Talks’, ‘Drifting’, and ‘What is memory, if not testament?’, each of which delivers its own sucker-punch ending. Of course, the sensual and the poignant are not divorced from one other – even amidst the eroticised religious imagery of ‘Master, Master’, there is a sudden heartfelt sincerity as the voice proclaims, ‘my love of you has been / the death of artifice’. Nevertheless, it is when the voice is not engaging in erotically charged power plays, but instead turns its focus inwards, that the single-minded confidence, unapologetic demands, and fiery sharpness of the more carnal poems are eroded like sea-glass. What remains is fragile, tender, and achingly poignant. When the satisfying and pleasurable sense of self-certainty is stripped away, we are left looking inwards with a quiet contemplation of isolation, purpose, and need.

    Many questions are put forward over the course of the collection, some more explicitly than others.

    Implicitly, the collection asks: Who are we when we are left alone?

    And explicitly: What is memory if not testament?

    Whether any reader believes that the answers can be found within these pages or not, we will surely find ourselves with much to contemplate in seeking them, buoyed by the ample richness of imagery and sound that makes up Eros Rex.

  • Who is my Neighbour? On the Death of Renee Good

    It’s very possible that Renee Nicole Good reasoned, as I would’ve, that her whiteness would protect her when she put her Honda Pilot, dog in tow, in the path of ICE vehicles on a Minneapolis street less than a mile from where George Floyd’s last words were, just six years before, “I can’t breathe.” Unfortunately for Renee—a poet, wife, and mother of three—neither the historically privileged color of her skin nor her citizenship were sufficient to shield her from three shots fired at point blank range by an ICE officer after a brief and startling confrontation. The officer was briefly hospitalized and released the same day.

    Ordinary Americans can add this outrageous bloodshed to a growing list of Orwellian events prompted by the Trump administration, which includes both the killing itself and subsequent state-propagated lies seeking to style Good as a ‘domestic terrorist’ and ‘professional agitator.’ Today, I woke to news of a flurry of resignations from top prosecutors: four senior leaders in the division that investigates police killings have resigned in protest, and six federal prosecutors in Minnesota have jumped ship, not to mention the FBI denying local MN authorities any access to their investigation.

    Our times (and our enforcement officers) are trigger-happy, and the socio-political hot buttons have long since boiled over. There is palpable temptation—on all sides of the American partisan spectrum—to give into violence, or despair, or both. Reaching into an exhausted rattle-bag of the faith in which I was raised, “love thy neighbor as thyself” – a Levitical commandment echoed by Jesus of Nazareth—sits like a cold stone in my palm.

    Christ was an effective radical because he knew when to flip a table and when to restore a sword-shorn ear lopped off in protest of his own arrest. Angry Americans flip tables with zeal. It’s the cathartic part, the part that soothes our sense of wounded moral dignity and our desire to see immediate justice. But I fear that until we understand the counterintuitive nature of this rattle-bag text – counterintuitive because we do not get to pick and choose the identities of our neighbors, and because we are completely entrenched as a society in ‘othering’ those outside our given and (especially) our chosen ‘tribes’ – we will continue to see blood in the streets and lies on the screen.

    POTUS is set on besmirching the name and legacy of Renee Nicole Good—who died standing up for her neighbors. I’m certain we will not see these calumnies retracted any time soon. A closeted melancholiac, I’m left mourning Renee, a fellow artist, and imagining what it means to bring up my young son in such turbulent, hate-stricken times. I know I’m not the only one.

    We might finally start living when we learn to kill each other with kindness. Until then, we seem doomed to proceed without the last two words and suffer the consequences.


    SOMETHING GOOD
    by Haley Hodges

    Sky, road, rain, one great
    grey. Into this toothless homogeny
    come fanged questions—
    must we raise our children
    in a police state? Was the grey,
    say, two generations back
    (grand grey to this grey)
    softer, somehow? Fault fate
    if you must. How to return
    to iridescence—to joy—
    despite this—despite all—
    before we return to dust:
    that’s our operation, our
    immutable mandate. Let
    slates be wiped and crammed
    with this endeavor. Light,
    it’s time. Come like cream
    to the top. Crown each
    seeking life, lives going
    to the lengths men with guns
    and covered faces go—
    but oh, finally gently. And
    for something good.

    Feature Image: Uniformed HSI SRT agents in Los Angeles

     

     

  • JACK GILBERT WAS TOO HORNY TO BE A METAPHYSICAL POET

    JACK GILBERT WAS TOO HORNY TO BE A METAPHYSICAL POET
    not that sex and metaphysics cancel each other out—
    his was good news for Linda Gregg, until it wasn’t.
    Interviewer:
    Did you and Linda ever collaborate?
    JG:
    We were intertwined. We read each other’s poetry,
    appreciated each other’s poetry,
    discarded each other’s poetry.
    (Quick shout-out to the procreative urge.
    Are you gonna tell me the world doesn’t hinge
    and turn on it? I don’t think you are.)
    That desire is ungovernable produces—
    or should I say begets—fear. Also verse; some good,
    some not. Either way, learn to love that twinge
    in your loins. I don’t mean make it lord, I just mean
    bless it. Whatever else may be true,
    it has plans to prosper you, wants
    fruitfulness, wants multiplicity
    at least as much as God does,
    maybe more.
    I’ve inherited Jack and Linda’s lettered
    children. If you’re reading this,
    you have too.
  • Poem: And Me

    And Me

    Naked for you, beneath
    some moon somewhere, which sounds
    like an ending, unless you begin
    with it. White as a page, as a unicorn’s
    horn, some skin—all of mine. So stare
    down—star-down is how I want to lay
    with you. Come further up. Go
    further in. Night is falling with us.
    Night, the witch’s sweet-tooth craving—
    she can’t stop biting it, can’t stop licking
    out the hours. Don’t think about that
    just now. Don’t watch her. Watch me.

    Feature Image: Two Nudes in a Forest, Frida Kahlo 1939

  • Poem: Teacher

    TEACHER

    I know I’ve made a christ of you
    the way I gather up the crumbs
    beneath your table, the way I bathe
    your feet with my hair.

    But this blind worship
    won’t do, and I must take and eat
    new prayer. Teacher! It was not given me
    to sit at your right hand or your left.

    Thought you saw me under the fig tree,
    but it was just a trick of the light
    cleft between branches.

    Feature Image: Pasquale de’ Rossi:School Teaching, a Teacher with Four Pupils c. 1700.

  • America The Bisected

    Like most of us, I spent the past week in a state of deep reflection over our collective national fate. Like some of us, I mourned. The American political sphere seems to have reached an anti-zenith, one culminating in some dystopian rhetorical Babel tower built and sustained by hatred. What have I seen in my life and times? The death of nuance and curiosity. The death of (real) tolerance.

    I spent the past week reading status after status beginning with the words ‘Go fuck yourself if you_____’ regarding the election results—a decisive Trump majority. Trump himself engendered—I imagine because he had so much to gain, and now enjoys the fruit of his labor—this exact brand of vitriol, something like near-total dismissal from the left of the humanity of the right and vice versa. He now rules supreme over our fragmentation, the sole beneficiary. I cannot emphasize the extent to which I am certain the ‘go fuck yourself if’ approach to our fellow Americans—as sympathetic as it is, frankly—will keep men like Donald J Trump in power forever. I cannot emphasize the extent to which the left’s patent refusal to acknowledge a single human quality in the right* decisively lost what appears to be the entirety of the working class,* once a democratic bastion, and catapulted Trump to victory.

    I’ve been thinking about stereotypes, which served as the oil-slicks upon which we’ve slid rapidly down to where we are. The left’s general profile of the typical Trump voter is this: uneducated, uncultured, evangelical/fundamentalist, nationalist, and white. I hope they’re now asking themselves why Trump won 45% of the Latino vote, the highest for a Republican presidential candidate in history. Stereotypes run a troubled livewire between truth and untruth. Thanks to my up-bringing in a tiny conservative Midwestern town, I know many Trump voters personally, although few from my own inner circle voted for him (with some exceptions) – they are not, by and large, toothless xenophobes.

    They are—if you’ll allow me to generalize—rural, religious, and educated, but not to a standard that approaches the left’s quote unquote elite. Many of them remain in the small towns of their origin, and are proud to be there sustaining those communities. They pay attention to their money, hopeful for Trump’s promised economy, which is also the issue that solidified his Latino percentage. I’m speaking of people I actually know, people I grew up with, people worth understanding and—here’s something subversive—people worth learning from. Is their perspective on 21st century life in America smaller than or inferior to that of their left-situated counterparts? I’d say sometimes it is, and attribute this reality directly to the narrowness of perspective that’s nearly inevitable, should one never venture meaningfully away from one’s place of origin—meaning one receives any and all education (including four years of college) in that very place alongside—this is key—the same kinds of people and ideas they’ve always experienced, and the same norms they’ve always inhabited. Rural Americans typically can’t experience the demographic diversity (and this kind implies many other kinds) urban dwellers take as a matter of course. There are fewer ways of seeing and being, and more assumptions, therefore, about the ‘right’ ways to see and be.

    The curled-lip sneer of the left-elite for the entire right—its steadfast refusal to attribute any moral integrity whatsoever to no less than half of America—will take us from Trump era to Trump era. It’s only a prediction, but let’s see. The Trump supporters I actually know (and I assume many of those I don’t) are not only NOT going to go fuck themselves, but continue to show up to the polls and vote for whatever powerful person that allows them to feel—however deceptively, however crudely—valued, seen and understood.

    The grief and pain of marginalized communities in view of a new Trump era makes more sense to me than I can rightly convey—the queer and trans communities, POC communities, immigrants. So let me be clear about those to whom I make this appeal. If, like me, you are white, privileged, educated, and generally able to tolerate and engage true ideological diversity and diversity of lived experience/identity, part of the ‘work’ to be done now may be disabling your elitist gag-reflex long enough to sympathize—not with racism, sexism or fascism—but the human beings to whom you hastily and even lazily ascribe these isms from your ivory tower. The more deeply we cling to our ‘fuck yous,’ the more robust Trump’s victory becomes—he has successfully deafened his supporters—your fellow Americans—to any condemnations you now choose to apply. ‘Fuck yourself’-style public engagement has led to two separate waves of Donald Trump. Can we agree it’s categorically failed, and will continue to fail?

    Trump (and men like him) are only in trouble when we award the status of full humanity to the opposing party. I’ll be more radical—it’s actually when we reawaken to that immutable status. I admit my hope is small, but I’ll do what I can. If you voted for Donald Trump, you won’t hear ‘fuck yourself’ from me, or see me stare down my nose. But if you want to participate in meaningful dialogue about why many people—specifically many oppressed people—so fear and despise him, please, let’s talk about that. Let’s open each other up and see what new things we can find. The old things have ceased to serve us well. If you are celebrating the incumbent POTUS, I guess I leave you to your victory. But I question whether any of us—any of us—should celebrate the completely bifurcated America we’re now forced to accept for four years…don’t you?

    Feature Image: ATC Comm Photo

  • Poem: ‘Calling All Angels’

    Calling All Angels

    Leaves fall like secret prayers—
    calling all angels

    September’s having her best
    orgasm in a century. Everything lingers
    in climax, the character of the light, earthy
    fragrances, a whole heaving calendar week
    with an arched spine.

    Here’s how I know the world
    is ill and absurd: a dead fawn stares up
    from the roadside, spots unsullied, perfect
    and gone. Most days I choose to forget, but

    entire families explode in Palestine. Cascades
    of leaves now. Calling all angels yes god yes

     

    Image: Vico Rock, Dalkey, County Dublin, Ireland.
  • Poem: ‘And Not Your Garments’

    And Not Your Garments

    Lord, Lord this my heart full

    of secrets, seeds I know
    you did not send—Lord, I

    cannot rend.

    If I am choked, therefore,

    by weeds,

    I will not ask
    for a mended garden, I

    won’t beg your holy pardon
    at scythe’s end.

    These were difficult to bury,
    so little loam left in me. You,

    perfect,            alone
    apprehend.

     

    Feature Image: De intrige, (James Ensor, 1890); collection: Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen

  • Poem: No Record of Wrongs

    No Record of Wrongs

    Love does keep a record of some things—
    your solitary walks in Coln Saint Aldwyn’s,
    a precise curl of Virginia Creeper tendrils,
    vermillion in autumn, the way you carefully
    smelled horses’ necks beneath the mane back home,
    velveteen crushes of cornhusks lashed to lampposts

    Love notes you’ve yet to find a Petoskey stone,
    have not managed to secure passage
    in a hot air balloon at dawn. Love traces
    those scars left by its own sweeping hand, marks
    your fevered night-sky relish, your strange enfolding
    of language in language and the red-winged blackbirds
    enfolding themselves in blue-green marsh

    Love keeps a record of you singing to yourself,
    tallies your tears. Love folded a page corner
    the day your shoulders sank like the horizon,
    from a grey-salt schooner, love knows how
    you should be touched.

    No seeker of wrongs will read
    love’s record, nor ask for it
    let love’s book be freely shown

    and may we ever seek
    to write


    Image: Daniele Idini

  • Poetry: Haley Hodges

    Faking It

    When Cleopatra rolled
    Out of the rug, she thought:

    Don’t worry! Even if
    I do not enjoy your performance,
    You will enjoy mine—a lot.

    I’d like to credit myself
    As an actress, but the truth
    About men is: I’ve yet
    To meet one unwilling
    To believe he is a singularly
    Exceptional lover—yeah, baby.

    I am your captain aboard the Beguile,
    Cruising down that long denial
    With no wish to make things
    Worse by undeceiving
    You—mm, hail Caesar
    I offer half-lidded eyes and
    All the right sounds at all
    The right times and rely
    On the fact that truly
    What you pay close attention to
    (Unduly) is yourself. You’re watching
    Me, but it’s astounding—genuinely—
    What you won’t see, though you should—
    There, right there, that’s good.

    Charming, cunning queen, lay the tracks,
    Set the stage and land the scene. He’ll believe
    Because he wants to—oh, I want you
    And yet you’ll wish that you’d stayed home—
    It wasn’t worth the trip to Rome.