Eshleman on Solorzano

by on Feb.22, 2011

[Clayton Eshleman wrote the following “glosses” on the first 12 poems of Mexican poet Laura Solorzano’s Lip Wolf (translated by Jen Hofer, published by Action Books)


1: The swan of poetry, neck-twisted, found dead in its cistern, a sister swan, a “you” desolate, divided, numb—yet miraculously alive, near-form, a beautiful filthy thing covered, a kind of self-tearing nourishment. Aproached, this Muse of poetry tautens
twists, reburies itself.

2: “You” is matrix, the force in nature that self-conceives. Parthenogenetic, it contains its own prize (like a piñata—and like a piñata it hides its prize and must be broken open). “You” as the poetic word, the poet’s shadow (or the shadow’s poet), if spoken unspoken, mouth loss, cow mute.

3: The speaker is also “you-less,” alone, masticating fable and monster, assimilating the spectrum of her livingdying, chewing language as her mortal immortality. She is a mill, in grind with measuring, nibbling the fuse of the flower as well as its signature.

4: The bee-work of language at the mercy of the speaker’s body, vaporous as a cloud. The tension in poetry overturns, is a desert as well as a savior, a savior who is hollow, at home. The speaker begs for a rootedness, something cloud-ungraspable. In the language hive she experiences the explosions of her own excavations.

5: To hold “you” as a house contains statues, orgasmic couplings, this is the task. To come to form in the face of all she sees and experiences. Such is the price of a realized “you,” the price of experience. “You” thingifies as it burns. Its nature is one of combustion and salvation. To fuck until she bursts is to fabricate a torso, a curve in the pruned and burning disintegration.

6: The speaker discovers that the “you” she has made contact with has not experienced the torrent of touching fully. She also discovers that this “you,” so fully without, is knotted within, in the thimble tightness of her own life material. At this point “you” is still incompletely activated, is still nut-hard, uncracked, refusing to be broken into imaginal vectors.

7: The speaker drives into an obsessive naming, a female Adam calling out essence via identification. She breaks out of herself, but her lake is lunar, and the goal of her pursuit keeps on shape-changing. “You” as the “combined object” of the subconscious, the ungraspable and multifoliate rain ray.

8: How make “you” speak? The Muse as a medusa the poet is to give birth to, deadly and devouring. In the delirium of birth, “you’s” members are glimpsed: spine, finger, forehead, all dough, all stuff to be transformed in blundering digital blindness.

9: Once the speaker was pregnant, her brain not her own. Suffering physical pregnancy (versus imaginal bud-forthing) she experiences self-devouring as giving birth. A cavern of masks, she bore her ton, her cubic tangle, this “you-less” gift.

10: Between “you” and the speaker is a centrifuge of time and space, a particle flow of the seen and unseen, motherhood stuffed with participation, a cave haven for all the contradictions she encounters in the grand “between,” the unrelenting exploding pregnancy of life between the target and the aiming.

11: The process of fulfillment now kicks in. “You” identified again and again transforms under touch. Such transformation is now experienced as an antiphonal filling and vanishing, for the speaker herself is also in a state of transformation. She is “other” to “herself,” and thus released in the playful chemistry of thingness and being. “You” bald, “you” tearful, “you” fulfilled in momentary cessation of the hurricane of becoming.

12: “You” has been called out, named, 80 times, and is now malleable, no longer prudish nor meek. “You” is vein ink debating itself in the fire in love with fire that is the poem. A filled void, musicalized, in mouth loss sexual exuberance. Not a timid lip but a wolf lip, de-smothered, de-upchucked, an unceasing flute celebrating its narcissian rivers. The precipice reached.

14 January 2010

1 comment for this entry:
  1. Sarah Fox

    First tier poetry for me