The Epic-ness of Head Off & Split

Epic. The word I would use for this collection is epic. The book as a whole: epic. The poems individually: epic. This is in the sense that there are pieces in this book that are ten pages long and while many are epic in length they are also that in how content unfolds throughout the pieces. I find myself overwhelmed by Nikky Finney’s words, which is to say that this work fills the cup inside you and then keeps pouring. In some ways this book is the stretching and unfurling of “The Clitoris” (56-57), where most of what we know or have been told or what could bring us pleasure is “scrunched & hidden” Finney writes through and into what “Mapmakers, and others, who draw / important things for a living, / do not want us to know...”

I think it’s important to note that this book is hard to read. It begs to be read slowly, every word and line taken in, digested. What is beautiful in this work is sometimes confounding. I found myself lulled and mystified by certain stanzas, for example:

I

The arc of your boneless back flags above me.
We are blind discovers, the nine seas pool
between us, blue curves, maritime, sheath of surrender, limbed night.

What sweeter world could be voyaged from
the earth’s center, pieced of figsuckle,
orange, the twice-licked skin of jet limes,
Breath of peppermint, braided, burning. (from “Orangerie” 54-55)

I read this and knew I wouldn’t possibly be able to fully comprehend it in a week and in a way that adds to the beauty and intelligence of the work. You read this and know it has something to do with love, and love making, violence and voyage, a sense of connection to the earth/the body - its smells, its tastes. It makes you pause and think, it draws you in close and refuses to unclench its grip, it lingers on your skin like a scent you can’t quite place until you return again to find the answers you’ve been looking for all along.

There were a number of poems I found myself both frustrated by and in awe of throughout this book. One such poem was, “Plunder” (23-32). This is one such way in which I felt the raw experience of a living through the Presidency of Baby Bush is used to construct a historical/communal conception of that moment. In the article we read, discussion of liminal space intrigued me. Kathryn Taylor writes, “In The Location of Culture(2004), Bhabha claims that people who live in the liminal spaces between cultures are in a unique position to build their own identities through present-tense performances - or lived moments that arise from immediate, raw experiences. It is through such performance that “objectified others may be turned into subjects of their history and experience” (178), and distinguished as “whole” apart from the mainstream.” The “1,836 ghosts of Katrina” become the subjects of their history. They “drilled & fought their way through every protective oil well put in their path and finally reached the other side…” they’ve become actors in a story that’s previously envisioned them non-actors.

Last thing I want to say is I appreciated this poem because I have been thinking about ways to write about #45. Of course looking to the past is a valuable way to see what old avenues can be traveled down again. Things haven’t changed as much as we think and this book hold some proof of that.

xoxo,
Rai