Tag Archives: interns

Writing Classics Queerly

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A Blog Post                                                                                                                                                                    by Reuben Gelley Newman

I’ve been thinking recently about the politics of writing a poem called “Ganymede and the Eagle.” You may be familiar with Yeats’ poem “Leda and the Swan,” which describes the Greek god Zeus taking the form of a swan and raping a human woman. But in the myth, Zeus also soared down from Olympus as an eagle to take a boy, Ganymede, to be his cupbearer. The story had obvious homoerotic subtext, and Ganymede’s name eventually morphed into the Latin word “catamitus,” a boy or effeminate adult male kept for anal sex by an older man, and the equivalent word “catamite” in early modern English.

Wait a second, adolescents “kept for anal sex by an older man?” Isn’t that child abuse? From a modern perspective, of course. From an ancient perspective, no. The Greeks in particular had a tradition of pederasty, in which young men were sexually pursued by older men and at least in theory received educational and moral mentorship as well.

This seems like a horribly unequal power dynamic to us, and it was. Many wealthy Greek and Roman men could have sex with women, boys, and slaves at their whim. It was also considered unmanly to bottom, or be in the “passive” role, and some poets dissed their enemies through sexual insults. For example, in one poem, the Roman poet Catullus tells his friends: “I will butt-fuck you and skull-fuck you, Aurelius, you pussy-boy, and Furius, you cocksucker!”

That’s a translation taken from a Huffington Post article by Indolent’s Michael Broder where he argues that this wasn’t hatred so much as camp. There’s definitely a debate to be had there, but the point is, however inequitable ancient Greece and Rome were, we can also recognize their queerness today. That’s what drives my desire to write about them.

Already, though, by thinking about it as “Ganymede and the Eagle,” I’m implying that Zeus rapes Ganymede like he rapes Leda in Yeats’ poem. I’m making it more familiar (if still horrific) to modern sensibilities by framing it as cis-white-God-rapes-young-innocent-boy. But who am I to do that? Is this how I’m sympathizing with the #metoo moment in an inauthentic way? And why do I need classics to do that anyways? Is classics just a bunch of Western canonical bullshit that writers are obsessed with?

I don’t have answers, but I can hint at some. I’m trying to talk about different ways queerness has been conceptualized across time, and how there’s queerness, in some form or another, everywhere. I’m queering classics, something poets like Carl Phillips and Reginald Shepherd have done for a while. I’m not at all the first to queer the Ganymede myth, either: see Jericho Brown’s powerful and chilling take here.

This trend fits into the broader paradigm of poets and other writers rethinking classics, as exemplified by feminist poems like Carol Ann Duffy’s “Eurydice” (available on Genius, of all places!) or epics like Derek Walcott’s Omeros. Because classical culture has influenced Western civilization in so many ways—both good and bad—I think this is important work.

But I’m trying to do it self-consciously. Right now, there are actually two poems: one a stripped-back retelling of the myth, the other a prose poem, weaving Ganymede in with broader concerns about Jewishness, queerness, and my own identity. They’re both ambitious, and I’ve gone through several drafts of each. In the first, I’m trying to portray Ganymede as more than just a passive victim, but I still wonder if I should write yet another poem in Ganymede’s voice, as Carl Phillips does with Leda in “Leda, After the Swan.” The second one has the potential to be too sprawling and disjointed, something I’ve worked hard against.

The joy of it is that I’m taking risks and asking myself the hard questions: about how poems can be political, about the politics of writing about classics, and about my own positionality. Although I feel like the poems are relatively finished now, who knows where they’ll take me? Their making, like the subject matter, is quite queer indeed.

 

In addition to interning here at Indolent, where he edits the blog, Reuben Gelley Newman is an undergraduate at Swarthmore College. His work appears in Alexandria Quarterly, What Rough Beast, and HIV Here & Now, and is forthcoming in The Golden Shovel Anthology: New Poems Honoring Gwendolyn Brooks, 2nd Edition.

The Rhetoric Surrounding Poetry of Illness

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A Blog Post                                                                                                                                                                by Olivia Hu

Writing as a form of autonomy, both on physical and mental realms, is not a foreign practice. The conception of poetry is almost immediately correlated to healing, which is not completely wrong; poetry is no doubt a cathartic, almost ritualistic experience for many who battle illness and disability—yet it is also integral to question the many limitations of such associations. As a poet who battles illness, I have often questioned the authenticity of my own work and the narratives that I subconsciously adhere to. In a society that seeks digestible, poignant narratives, the often vulgar realities of illness are shoved aside.

Poetry surrounding adversity is not uncommon—in fact, one could argue that hardship is both the catalyst and the basis of poetic work. Illness and disability here are inherently linked; as elements of emotional burden, one would expect the prevalence of such topics within poetry. Yet there is a danger in such a way of thinking. The archetype of the “creative genius,” an artist fueled by their suffering (specifically that of mental illness), creates a culture where pain is equated to “good” work. I myself often accept this archetype subconsciously. At a local reading, I momentarily felt dignity when the organizer announced the themes of my work, as if to say: my poetry is poetry. Of course, there isn’t anything wrong with pride in one’s work, identity, and the artistic cultivation of a personal narrative if it happens to relate to suffering, yet once I evaluated the significance I placed on my illness within my work, distortions were uncovered. “I don’t ever write happy poetry” is perhaps a common sentiment among writers—but why? The perceived necessity for artists to revel in emotional and physical difficulty means that work that is celebratory is ultimately seen as unnecessary, not poignant, or lacking in significance. It is only when celebratory poems spring from narratives of healing after pain that they seem to receive similar reciprocation as those that are directly sorrowful. It is crucial to break the idea that mental illness creates a good artist, or that artists need to have mental illness to write good poetry. It’s an almost obvious statement, but I and many of my peer writers have subconsciously manifested these stigmatizations.

Yet while it’s difficult to navigate the realms of “happy” poetry, there is also an often unrecognized boundary of vulgarity that cannot be crossed. When suffering in poetry becomes so raw and visceral, it breaks larger, prescribed societal narratives of illness and pain—and in doing so, often creates a blatant narrative that seems almost disingenuous. When poets break convention in writing about illness, the rawness often becomes greater than the narrative. Work becomes a polarity—it is either greatly admirable or seen as overwhelmingly excessive. I recently wrote a poem of the disassembling of the body and was met with confusion: “I don’t understand, so where is the illness?” It is this innate response to seek to understand, to clarify self-histories that many poets skirt around within their work. But when you write about illness, there is not always a consistent plot. Sometimes there is no plot. And there is no necessity in clear description of emotion. The dismembering of an organ seems overwhelming because it breaks established conventions of what illness is—a story.

My poetic autonomy rests on metaphorical extremes and jarring notions. I write this way not to break social convention, but because such a tone reflects my raw experiences with illness—they render the same atmosphere that such facets of writing allow. I have often questioned if my poetry has breached the boundary where it is no longer feasible, and rather overwhelmingly “ugly.” I find that “ugly” poetry becomes ugly when the illness is no longer something digestible for readers, which in actuality, is almost always the case. The difference is simply that every poet has a specific style, narrative, and voice. The subconscious pressure to write work that the audience would fathom in its entirety has persisted within me despite my attempts to discard it. But I have often questioned—is it necessary for audiences to understand poems completely? What is “understanding?” And when is truly understanding illness externally possible? Such questions extend further to concerns of how we read poetry, and whether it is truly necessary to gain meaning from all work. To truly accept lack of clarity, to welcome ambiguity, is to read poetry more expansively. By doing so, one discards preconceived notions of what illness is. No longer do we seek predictable stories that overlook the reality of illness.

Of course, poetry’s beauty still rests heavily on its ability to share experience; it would be foolish to ignore the audience’s importance for any artistic form. It would also be callous to disregard the many narratives that do happen to fall in “predictable patterns of illness,” as such would be to negate authentic experiences for the purpose of breaking authenticity, which is ironic as a whole. The recognition, however, that ill poets often navigate a difficult dichotomy between subconsciously predictable narratives and perceived vulgar over-characterization is one of great importance. Most, if not all, narratives of pain and struggle are necessary for not only external visibility, but the construction of the self. Many ill poets, including myself, use poetry as a means to reclaim power. Through narratives of suffering, we shift the pain from an uncontrollable means to our own voice. The emergence and conceptualization of our illnesses creates artistic meaning. Despite its stigmatizations, subconscious influence, and perceived inauthenticity, the rhetoric of illness prevails as integral to the self construction of our identities.

Olivia Hu is a poet based in Vancouver, Canada. She has published work in journals such as Glass Poetry Press, Cleaver, Barking Sycamores, Red Paint Hill Press, Cadaverine, Eunoia, After the Pause, Crab Fat Magazine, among others. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Ocean’s Children (Platypus Press 2016) , a Best New Poets Nominee (2018), and was recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards and the Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest. In addition to writing, she is the Editor-In-Chief of VENUS MAG. Her poetry can be found at oliviahupoet.com.