Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Scopophilia” by Simon
Constam. Constam wrote poetry as a
young man but gave it up after just a few years, put off by the growing
influence of academia. An admirer
of Rimbaud and Beckett as a teenager, Constam hitchhiked around the world at
eighteen, which he credits as probably his most formative experience. He worked
for a publisher for a couple of years and then owned a small bookstore in
British Columbia for a long stretch.
One day in his middle fifties,
he retrieved the poems he had composed in his youth, finding that he could not
leave poetry behind him. He now has a few poems published in online magazines
and is looking for a home for a book of poetry as well as a chapbook. He has a small sales consulting
business in Toronto.
Scopophilia
Simon Constam
I enjoy within myself a
mixum-gatherum
of shame, embarrassment and
curiosity.
Must I use the word frisson?
It makes me feel so helpless.
Well, I suppose I don’t so
much see what is before me as I,
wanting more of what I already
have, attach myself to it.
I don’t accept just anything.
I accept whatever can be made
into what I need from it.
I cannot work with a cold
night and a colder wind, for example.
I don’t know why. Or a
forest. Or a lake. Or nature generally.
With some exceptions – Lorca’s
moon.
But certain moments in history
repeated endlessly,
some of them are fine.
Most fly right past me.
I can make something out of
people hating.
I can easily modify that to
suit my purposes.
I can do little with ambition
and wealth.
Cities, modern, the space-age
brain…..
I try to make them malleable.
But if the choice is mine …..
A village built on a winding
river,
streets climbing up steeply
from the water’s edge,
narrow streets, women with
ancient brooms
and young women who have lived
too long in a place with too few men.
And she ought to be a little
older
and reluctant in a brazen sort
of way.
For sex I’ll take my chances
with pathological shyness
alternating with
ride-em-cowgirl.
And lots of dark, dark hair.
Truant kids peeking in through windows.
Old men who talk as if they
will not live again.
And for people arriving at the
village square café,
I prefer that two tables be
pushed together
for several generations of a
family among them those
that simply know how things
really work and are anxious to get on with it,
offending those who prize the
gathering alone
happy in their ignorance of
the old ways.
For comestibles I prefer the
whole beast, every last little bit of it
but that comes later
tonight. For libation, the blood they think is wine.
And there is something maudlin
too - brothers who have good reason to
hate each other and do, and
then don’t, and then do again.
I do like to watch history
poking its head
through the curtains of
individual lives.
And for what ails me, I prefer
the simple mechanism of a man dying
who doesn’t deserve to die,
has worked too hard, cared too much,
for his family. But only if he
has a secret life
that destroys my respect for
him.
For meaning I much prefer it
when the writer has no idea at all what the piece is about
and you have to choose more
than just your own ending.
Poet’s Notes:
Drawing stories that, as often
as not, don’t fit what I see but fit my perspective, is what I find myself
doing. I was outside one night last winter, looking up at a sky where the city
lights obscured the stars, feeling a little anguished at both wanting and not
wanting to write something about the disappearance of the ancient night.
Bit by bit, what I could use and what I couldn’t began to trouble me.
I grew up among people who didn’t
spend much time outside, didn’t camp or hike or do anything outdoors. So I can’t often for myself find a
connection with the natural world. I find intensity instead in how we behave
with one another. That is what I make and re-make in the world for
myself.
Editor’s Notes: What beautiful language
Simon uses here! I particularly enjoy his word choices for the first two
stanzas.
The turn is perfectly executed
in the tenth stanza. The stanzas that follow are filled with beautiful
imagery and thought-provoking subtle references to biblical history (the
stories of Joseph, and of Jacob and Esau). These stories are evoked and
woven into the narrative in a masterful way.
The final stanza makes for a
"wow" finish. It invites the reader to re-read the poem to look
for different meanings and interpretations.
that can only be
felt. The bright
