duplex
after Jericho Brown
some few parts of me are gone missing
an old boyfriend helped himself to my language
i language to fill the empty space
sometimes a new note sounds in the density
i am threaded through my densities
in particular light, i glitter
in a particular light, i am perfect
it scorches the iris to stare directly
i envision my scorched flesh as lace
leave the thread loose, let the roughed edge be
let the roughed edge be admonition
augury of skin’s fragility
skin sanctifies fragility in scar
some few parts of me are gone
Irene Cooper
Irene Cooper wrote the feminist noir novel Found; Committal, poet-friendly spy-fy about family; spare change:poems, finalist for the Stafford/Hall award; and the collection, even my dreams are over the constant state of anxiety. Writings appear in Beloit Poetry, Denver Quarterly, The Rumpus, Witness, Bear Review, and elsewhere. Irene works and lives with her people and Roxy in the middle of Oregon.
Why this Knocked Taylor Out:
The duplex form is exciting in so many ways, mostly because it's a fresh take on old things. You have a refrain of sorts, but are allowed more variation than the normal refrain poems. In this poem in particular the shifts between the couplets really compelled me forward. The language forces attention. My favorite lines in “particular” were "in particular light, i glitter/in particular light, i am perfect"
The shift from the first line to the last is also compelling, the loss of the word “missing” in the final repetition brings forced attention to the word “gone” and what does it mean when parts of us (some few) are gone? Not just missing, but absent entirely. This coming after the “in a particular light i am perfect” further compelling me to dive back into the poem. How does a body achieve perfection if parts of it are gone? I don’t think the poem needs to answer the question, I think that’s up to us.
Also let’s take a second to appreciate the syntactical surprise in the line “i language to fill the empty space.” Again, this raised profound questions about the role of language in the creation of the body and its myths. Or the line “i envision my scorched flesh as lace” (just a banger image y’all…)
And finally, the lower case “i” throughout. I’ll admit I’m often a lowkey hater of the lower case “i” in poems. Brenda Hillman explores this a lot in her writing as a way to decenter the self, but Mark Yakich says it does the opposite because it’s so noticeable. In this poem, it works for me because of the tension between the body’s perfection, and it’s missing parts. The lowercase “i” is still a functioning part of our language, but it’s missing the connecting line between the dash, and the dot to make it and I. Now that’s pretty woo woo, but…just think about it for a sec. A literal piece of the I is missing making it i. Sick right?
Interview:
Why did you choose Team Taylor for this poem?
As a perennially recovering Catholic, I love me some god/God stuff. I once wrote a menu for an imaginary pop-up restaurant that named all its dishes after martyred saints.
Also, I'd written some "body" poems (though I hope all or most of my poems engage with the body). Ultimately, you had me at "TURN NOUNS INTO VERBS!!!" Not that I am immune to a nerdy movie reference.
Talk to me about the duplex form for this poem, how do you see this in conversation with Jericho Brown (beyond just it being a duplex) and with other duplexes you've read?
I am compelled by Brown's referring to the duplex as 'a ghazal that is also a sonnet that is also a blues poem,' with the constraints of 14 lines and a per-line syllabic count of 9-11. Those staggered couplets break up the classic sonnet argument into multiple registers, and though a blues poem may be specific to the speaker, it somehow feels communal. I love that the duplex comes back to the first line in the last line, but in the repetition has altered the position and nature of that which is repeated, if even only a tiny bit.
I'm really drawn to your use of syntax and diction in this poem, how do you approach the language of your poetry? Is this poem typical of what you normally write, or does it deviate?
This poem may be more formally recognizable than a lot of my stuff, although I've written my share of sonnets. It may be more narrative, too,in the way that skin tells a story. One of my favorite ways to start a poem comes from another prompt by Jericho Brown, in which he asks his students to 'translate' a poem or passage by someone else into its word-for-word opposite—even the articles. Then you stare at that mess and make something. To play with syntax, for me, is to dismantle and re-order expectation—first and particularly for myself, and to put real pressure on the language.