![]() ![]() I wear a Bad Feminist t-shirt all over town because I am a Bad Feminist. You could say it’s just porn, just an accessory, just a song, just whatever, but there are real people out there, like the speaker’s half-brother, arrested for human sex trafficking.Īnd yet, we are complex humans and we get pleasure from things that don’t align with our values. Middle-aged white women in my old gym don’t think about the rape culture in Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”–they just sway their hips and keep dancing. Rappers don’t think about the chains they wrap themselves in, and what they represent. Is the speaker being hard on himself for “foolishly” not thinking about the music he’s listening to and what messages it projects–or is he aware and forgiving? Do we think about the things we listen to or watch or absorb as being antithetical to our values? Do we forgive ourselves? The speaker of this poem mentions porn, and I could argue that he’s talking about porn stars or men who watch a lot of porn, but either way they do it because they can, because they want “simply to play / Hardcore.” And now they “cannot grow / Stiff without looking at reflections of themselves.” Academics would call this scopophilia, deriving pleasure from looking–usually in a sexual context. And there are some standout lines: “Of bumpers and bumping bikini rumps,” “Like a lover no longer loved to the motel floor,” “Hardcore like the hardcore rappers paid to be,” “Wrapped in chains of rhyme and the arms of women,” “With the beautiful solitude chained about his throat.” There’s a lot packed in these dense lines, and the line breaks help us to slow down to understand things like “Foolishly, I did not think the worst of the music / I adore had anything to do with having power / Over anyone else.” If this poem had more punctuation–end stops–we might demand more words, but these words suffice. There’s a lot of enjambment, but each line also starts with a capital letter, indicating that these lines are meant to stand alone, too. I love that this poem has no periods, no stanza breaks, and few commas. You’d like this poem just for those references, but it gets better. You know those lyrics: “(’My bitch a choosy lover, never fuck / Without a rubber’).” Don’t you laugh a little bit, maybe cringe at how forward those lines are? You’ve seen those car “bumpers and bumping bikini rumps.” You probably lived through the 1990s or at least the first decade after 2000, and you’ve seen hip hop videos. So think of this poem as a warm-up, as an easing back into things you and I both want to read: it’s not a simplistic poem, but it is very accessible. I have been reading How To Be Drawn since the end of August, according to Goodreads, which is not to say that it is bad–it is really great, actually, full of wordplay and pop culture and commentary on what’s going on in the U.S., which is why I kept coming back to it–but it’s to say that my PhD program is kicking my ass and I am only now returning to the things I love, like reading poems. –Terrance Hayes, from How To Be Drawn (Penguin Poets, 2015) Into the cells–the music I have been playingĪll my life is about pimps and who will be pimped,īut when my daughter is listening, I play something else Growing over time as permanent and illegibleĪs what has been scratched tooth and nail With the beautiful solitude chained about his throat With human sex trafficking,” he will live in a cell He offered them from the belligerent johnsĪnd, when called for, protection from himself Over the girls he trafficked miles for moneyĪnd taxed for gas back home and the protection In the courtroom the way police lights swelled Of everything with something of themselvesĪ camera swelled the locks on my brother’s body ![]() Working for men who want to fill the soft pockets Wrapped in chains of rhyme and the arms of women Hardcore like the hardcore rappers paid to be Might have wanted before porn simply to play While the camera glares an inch from their genitals Stiff without looking at reflections of themselves Over anyone else, the naked women as bountifulĪs traffic, the half-naked men who cannot grow I adore had anything to do with having power Without a rubber”) bumped in the backgroundįoolishly, I did not think the worst of the music The one time I met him he called me brotherĪnd said our father had more children like usĪll over town while UGK’s “Int'l Players Anthem” Like a lover no longer loved to the motel floor He’d kidnapped or persuaded with knuckles My half brother, and the girls the news says A rapper mouths squatting like a gilded animalĬhains, chains, chains, but it is meant to conjure
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