Australian poet Cassandra Atherton, in a very short time, has become one the leading poets and critics of prose poetry both here and abroad, publishing poems, editing anthologies, and cowriting with Paul Heatherington one of the definitive histories of of the genre, published by Princeton University Press. Prose Poetry: An Introduction
Cassandra’s interests are varied. She is as comfortable writing about classical art and literature as she is publishing essays on pop culture, including a fascinating feminist analysis of Killing Eve. The three prose poems below, all from a series called “Touch,” show what happens when Cassandra takes on, and takes down, all the conceits of love poetry. The images are provocative, and her play on words is deadly funny.
Please look at her site to see how the amazing accomplishments of this young and surprising poet. Cassandra
Pilot
There was something about a cockpit, something about its root meaning. A pit of fighting cocks. Poe-esque. Like the pit and the pendulum, but with cocks. Deplaning from a flight to Boston, you asked me if I’d like to see the flight deck; touch your flight instruments. You steered me into the cockpit like I was attached to your tiller, telling me to follow my nose wheel. The golden stripes on your sleeves and the celestial wings on your hat were backed in deep blue. You slid into the pilot’s seat, tiny computer screens moving with maps and measurements. I liked the switches on the roof; you wanted to show me your thrust lever. But every time we had sex it was like you were on autopilot. I wanted some throttle but you always seemed to need guidance. You said our relationship had too much of a negative feedback loop. I told you the experience was a real yaw dampener. I’ll miss the Krug in the first-class lounge for breakfast and the iconic deconstructed pavlova in a glass, served with seasonal fruits and topped with Persian fairy floss but I need more hands-on approach whereas you liked to watch.
Ex-Priest
You used to touch me like a chalice taken from a tabernacle after Sunday Mass; shiny and precious vessel. I was your transubstantiation project. More of a fish than a loaf. More of a mustard seed than a fig tree. I liked it when you said the word ‘sacristy’ because it sounded like ‘sacred’ and ‘Christ’ all mixed up. I made you whisper ‘sacristy’ in my ear. It somehow sounded profane. You gave me a first edition of the Thorn Birds for my birthday and called me Meggie for two years. I watched the miniseries and bought a dress called Ashes of Roses. You laughed when I justified Fame as a Liturgical dance; ‘I want to live forever’, a comment on Christ’s immortality. I asked why you left the Jesuits when they are the smartest of all priests and Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the sexiest. You told me you could still be smart and hot without being a Jesuit. But, as it turned out, I liked men who keep their vows; no amount of impaling myself on your thorn could change that.
Sailor
You said I had mermaid hair so I plaited a long, thin strand and placed it around your neck; a peach-coloured garland. I told you I was like Glynis Johns in Miranda; you said I was more tempestuous. An Ariel to your Ahab. A Lorelei to your Sinbad. At night you recited ‘ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ while I ate spaghetti marinara and flew around your bedroom like an albatross. But when you turned out the lights I became your siren; a pulsing threnody. Under a canopy of my hair, you stroked my breasts and kissed the dip between my neck and collarbone until I foundered. Before you pulled anchor and sailed away, you said I’d always be your silver girl.
Commentary
I like to write prose poems about sex—it’s probably why I’m often introduced as Australia’s sex poet. I don’t mind that epithet because there aren’t enough good poems about sex, especially from a woman’s point of view. Also, I’m devoted to prose poetry and have never written any lineated poetry, and prose poetry happens to be the perfect form for exploring feminist attitudes to sex. Holly Iglesias’s extraordinary book Boxing Inside the Box: Women’s Prose Poetry politicizes this aspect of prose poetry by arguing that “women articulate the constraints of gender in prose poems, battling against confinement, boxing inside the box.” Iglesias puts the box under pressure by linking it to a “pressure cooker,” and also reclaims the derogatory slang term “box,” used for women’s genitalia.
These poems are excerpted from a sequence called “Touch., written for a collection of prose poems on the six senses. It celebrates lovers—both real and imagined—and explores powerful and often satirical responses to sex through charged utterances. At times, the sequence is both earnest and irreverent, playing with taboo while exploring sexual politics and reclaiming agency for women. In a poetic culture that is often seen to take itself too seriously, humorous poetry is frequently exiled to the margins; however, as Arielle Greenberg said of Barbara Guest’s poetry, “Levity is a feminist strategy; it serves as an undoing of the dominant order in both poetics and the culture at large”.
And now for some words about one of Cassandra’s favorite prose poems: “Death of the Apostrophe” by Jane Lunin Perel
I always think of prose poetry as much more than a poetic form—for me, it’s a way of life. I was delighted to co-edit an international anthology of prose poetry with Big Mr, Prose Poem, Peter Johnson (he’ll probably edit out this reference to himself as he is so humble, but I hope he doesn’t). Peter’s selections included prose poems by some wonderful prose poets, including Jane Lunin Perel. I immediately loved her “Death of the Apostrophe” because it uses humour to express a feminist poetic. I’m proud to say I still use the Oxford comma and I’ve always found punctuation and grammar sexy. Perel’s poem about possession begins with an elegy for the possessive apostrophe, and ends with the sexual politics of the body. Long live the apostrophe—the poetic apostrophe and the punctuation mark!
Death of the Apostrophe
No one wants to acknowledge possession, not even in bed. Take what you want. Give it back. It’s over. Movie after movie. No Valentine’s curves gaping out of the envelope: old trains surge through stone tunnels, unaware of the engineer’s augury. The eclipse of belonging, shrunk to that slight punctual mark distinguishing haves from have-nots dwindles daily, buried in the brain formation of assisted living patients, the grammar of their bones at war with diagrammatic sentences. And further, punctuation is unrecognized by drug dealers and addicts until the thrust of the needle’s tip or blade’s edge shaving down the fentanyl possesses a new body—your daughter’s—compost devolving from abject corpse. Pharmaceutical companies tell us we will live splendidly—but may die—of the drugs combusting our hearts or livers. Notify your doctors if your depression gets worse. So who requires possession in a mark the size of a micro-stitch that can’t save your life and requires proofreading? I’m one.
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss
Is free verse lineated prose, he asks innocently.