National Poetry Month: From Of Pearl (a manuscript-in-progress)

Author’s Note: I am currently in the early stages of writing a book-length poem, Of Pearl. The book will take the form of several monologues, which intersect visually on the page and, at times, interact. One of the central voices is a fabulation of the unmentioned/omitted mother figure in the anonymous 14th century Middle English poem often referred to as The Pearl Poem or Pearl (Perle). In the formally intricate and allegorical poem, a father laments the loss of his child daughter, slipping into a kind of dream landscape in his grief—but the girl’s mother is conspicuously absent, not even mentioned once in the poem’s 1212 lines. I felt this absence viscerally and began to wonder: what might happen if she were given a chance to speak—not only about the loss of her child, but about her life, her time, and her erasure from a canonical poem? Initially daunted by the idea of a single narrative voice, I found new energy in the possibility of moving between varied subject positions, including a contemporary poet considering gender, failure, and motherhood within environmental and political catastrophe; a museum curator working in the decorative arts; a stream that separates the living from the dead; and Hester Prynne, another famous literary “Mother of Pearl.” The voice published here is that of the geological substance mother-of-pearl (nacre). I am interested in how nacre produces the pearl as a commodity while being itself considered less valuable. How might this natural process be related to the labor and production of motherhood? How might the poem inhabit an inhuman voice tethered to mothering, adornment, geology, climate, and violence?

VOICE ONE: Nacre / Mother of Pearl

“Nacre Voit” — Rimbaud 

WHEREAS, LIGHT
FOUND ME
CONTINUALLY AND
FROM EACH
ANGLE, ALTERED.
ROSY YELLOW
WHITE, BLUE
WHITE, SILVER
WHITE, GREEN
WHITE, WHITE
LIKE PAIN.
TO BE
SEEN IS
THE ULTIMATE
EMERGENCY. BUT
I CANNOT
BEGIN IN
THE EMERGENCY.
STOP.
I MUST
GO BACK.
I HAVE
BEEN HERE
A VERY
LONG TIME.
I GET
THINGS CROSSED.
FORGIVE ME.
BUT IF
I RADIATE
OUT AS
FAR AS
I CAN,
I MAY
GET OUT
THERE, OUT
TO SOMETHING
CALLED BEFORE.
STOP. THERE IT
IS. IT
IS THERE.

I AWOKE
IN MYSELF,
CRADLING A
SOFT BODY,
KNOWING TO
PROTECT IT
FROM. ONLY
FROM. I
DID NOT
KNOW THE
STRUCTURE, THE
PROCEDURE, BUT
IT WAS
SOMEWHERE ENCODED
LIKE A
MARINER’S JEWEL.
WAVES OF
PAPER, WAVES
OF BRICK,
WAVES OF
SALT, AN
IMPOSSIBLE MATHEMATICS.
AND WHEN
I SLOWLY
CAME TO
KNOW MYSELF
AS A
FRAME, A
FRAME FOR
THE DARK
COLD, THE
SMALL VULNERABLE
RECESS, THE
POOL OF
TISSUE AND
ELECTRICITY, I
COULD GET
TO WORK.   

MY WORK
WAS WHAT
YOU MAY
CALL SECRETION,
WHAT OTHERS
MAY CALL
BUILDING, WHAT
SOME OTHERS
MAY CALL
AGGREGATION. I
CALL IT
DREAMING. LIKE
PULLING ETCHED
TILES FROM
A BASKET
AND ARRANGING
THEM INTO
WORDS AND
FORTIFICATIONS. IT
WASN’T NOT
MILITARY. I
KNEW NOT
OF HARM,
ONLY PRESSURE.
THERE WAS
SOMETHING OF
AN EXPERIMENT
TO IT,
MISTAKEN EDGES
FORMED, THE
NEXT TIME,
THINGS WOULD
BE SLIGHTLY
DIFFERENT. THIS
WENT ON.
IT’S MY
IMPRESSION THOUGHT
HAD LITTLE
TO DO
WITH IT.
DO BETTER,
SOMETHING SAID
FROM NO
DIRECTION. THERE
WERE PERIODS
OF ENORMOUS
PRESSURE. I
WAS SQUEEZED
BY YEARS
OF STONE,
THEN REPLACED
BY IT.   

DO YOU
KNOW HOW
LAND MOVES?
LIKE A
BULL IN
HONEY, HIS
BLUE HORNS
CARVING TUNNELS
INTO THE
STARRY ELSEWHERE.
STONE WAS
SLOWLY SNATCHING
ME UP.
I BECAME
A REPLICA
OF MYSELF,
THEN A
KIND OF
RIBBON IN
THE LAND.
OR OF
IT? THE
WORD NETWORK
ARRIVED AS
A SHOCK.
THE WORD
NODE.
STOP.
THIS IS
BEFORE I
KNEW I
WAS PRETTY.
DO YOU
THINK I’M
PRETTY? I
CAN FEEL
IT WHEN
THE EDGES
CHANGE. OR
WHEN IT’S
AN EMERGENCY.
IN THE
EMERGENCY, MY
PURPOSE CHANGES,
BUT THIS
WAS ALL
BEFORE.

I RETURNED
TO WORK
IN A
SPIRAL FORM,
A NEW
BODY REQUIRED
ME AND
I BECAME
LIKE GREAT
STEPS FOR
HER TO
CLIMB INWARD
TOWARDS HERSELF.
A MANY-WINDOWED
HALLWAY, STATELY
AND ARTERIAL,
WAS GROUND
TO IRIDESCENT
POWDER BY
THE SPEECH
OF DARK
WATER. TIME
MOVED THE
ROCK LIKE
WIND MOVES
TREES, ROLLING,
THE BRANCHES
SWELLING AND
FALLING. THIS
WAS A
TIME OF
OXYGEN. I
CALLED IT
BY ITS
OTHER NAME,
THE TINKERING
SOUND A
GIANT MILLIPEDE
MAKES WHEN
HAULING ITS
MANY RIBS
OVER MILES
OF ROOTS.
SYMBOLS, PURSUED
BY RAIN,
SINKING IN
THE PEAT
OF COAL
FORESTS. HOW
MUCH OF
ME WAS
THERE. AND
IF I
COULD GATHER
MYSELF ALL
TOGETHER, WHAT
COULD I
FILL? 

IN A
DREAM, THE
IMAGE OF
A GRAND
HOUSE CAME
TO ME.
WHITE WALLS
IN EVERY
ROOM. THE
PAINT THICKENED,
LAYER BY
LAYER SO
THAT EACH
ROOM BECAME
A SMALL
CAVITY, NESTLIKE,
A MEMORY
OF SPACE.
ONE ROOM
SHRANK TO
THE SHAPE
OF A
LIVER, THE
OTHER, A
POCKET BIBLE,
THE ATTIC,
AN EYE
SOCKET, THE
NURSERY WAS
ORCHID AIR.
NO ROOM
FOR ANYTHING
BUT WHAT
WAS LEFT.
DREAMS WERE
WARNINGS FROM
THE EARTH,
I KNEW
THIS THEN.
I MUST
BE VERY
TACTICAL, ONLY
COVERING WHAT
WAS NECESSARY.
PRODUCTION MUST
BE ALWAYS
TO SCALE.
I HAVE’
BEEN SPEAKING
FOR SOME
TIME OF
WORK, THE
NATURE OF
IT, THE
CONSTANT THROB
OF DEPOSITING.
MY WORK
IS COMPLEX
AND UNENDING.
IT HAS
OCCURED TO
ME THAT
WHAT I
BUILD ABOVE
I AM
BUILDING BELOW,
A LAND
OF DEAD,
AN UNDERWORLD
HOME. TWO
VOIDS, SEPARATED
BY FIRMAMENT.
THEY BOTH
CALL ME
MOTHER. I
HAVE TWO
CHILDREN. I
LOVE THEM
DIFFERENTLY, FOR
THEY LIVE
DIFFERENTLY. ONE
IS A
KIND OF
BLOB, A
“VISCOUS GREENISH
SACK” OF
LIVING TISSUE.
I MAKE
MYSELF A
CLOSED WORLD
FOR HIM,
BUT I
AM ALSO
HIS EXTENSION,
HIS ROOM,
AND HIS
SHAPE. I
SING TO
HIM OPEN
SHUT OPEN
SHUT. WE
ARE CONNECTED
BY A
LITTLE CORD
OF GLUE.
MY OTHER
CHILD IS
A GIRL.
SHE IS,
AT HER
CORE, AN
IRRITANT, A
THREAT, THE
SHARP SPECK
WHICH HURLS
HERSELF ABOUT
THE HOUSE.
SHE IS
OF PARASITIC
STONE, SOMETIMES,
SHE IS
MY OWN
ERROR, SOMETHING
MINE I
MUST COVER
UP WITH
MYSELF. MY
WORK IS
TO STIFLE
HER EDGES,
WEIGH HER
DOWN WITH
ME. I
THINK SHE
DOESN’T MEAN
ANY HARM,
MY LITTLE
BLISTER. I
LOVE THEM
DIFFERENTLY, BUT
SHE IS
MADE OF
ME, AND
HE IS
SOMETHING ELSE,
SOMETHING DIVINE
AND PRECARIOUS.
I BUILD
A MANDALA
OF COLOR
AROUND HIM,
SWIRLING CIRCLES
OF COOL
FIRE, I
MAKE HER
A PLANET.
MY LONELINESS
IS ON   HER NOW.
PAINTED. IT
CANNOT BE
REMOVED. SHE
IS THE
COLOR OF
STORMS. ROSY
YELLOW WHITE,
BLUE WHITE
SILVER WHITE,
GREEN WHITE,
WHITE LIKE
PAIN. UNTIL
THEY BOTH
ARE TAKEN
FROM ME.
I DO
IT ALL
AGAIN. ENDLESS
FACTORY OF
SHED LIGHT. 

MATRIX OF
GREEN FUR.
GREEN FUR
GROWING FROM
THE LEGS
OF CRABS.
GREEN FUR
TRAILING BEHIND
MY VOICE.
SCRUBBED CLEAN
AS BONE.
FREE OF
THEM, I
AM PUT
TO USE.
DID I
MENTION I
WAS USEFUL?
STOP
BUTTONS AND
COMBS, I
AM CARESSED
BY HAIR,
BY SILK,
AM CARVED
INTO A
SMALL BOWL
FOR THE
LIPS, MY
MARGARETS ARE
PAINTED ON
THE THROATS
OF QUEENS,
MY WILLIAMS
SLIDE DOWN
THE THROATS
OF THE
DOCK WORKERS.
IF MY
MEMORY SERVES,
APHRODITE HERSELF
WAS BAPTIZED
IN MY
CONCAVITY. BUT
MEMORIES ARE
NOT THEMSELVES,
THEY ARE
REPRODUCTIONS. THEY
FUSS AND
FRET, ARE
INTERCEPTED BY
VOICES IN
WAVES OF
AIR AND
SEA. A
MEMORY IS
GOSSIP WITH
THE SELF.
CANNOT BE
TRUSTED. I
HAVE VERY
LITTLE SAY,
VERY LITTLE
VOICE. SO
WHEN, ONE
DAY, I
WAS PRESSED
INTO THE
HANDLE OF
A GUN,
I DID
NOT KNOW
HOW TO
CALM MY
SHINE. I
DID NOT
KNOW HOW
TO SAY
STOP.
STOP.