Mar 072013
 
JH Pic

Jennica Harper

.

Inspired by the insanely provocative television series, Mad Men, Jennica Harper’s poem cycle here traces the meandering thoughts of pubescent Sally Draper, the oft times neglected offspring of paterfamilias and part-time Lothario, Don Draper. Harper’s monologues capture Sally’s experiences at the edges of the masculine, cut-throat world of Manhattan’s advertising, and the shifting social upheavals of the 1960s.

Though Sally’s not a leader for the sex, drugs and rock and roll revolution, she is a reactive element: a baby boomer kid with some indelible philosophy. In “Sally Draper at the Premier of Jaws,” her approval-seeking banter annoys her date and she realizes that she’s missing the entire point of being in a dark theatre with a boy. “This is me flirting,” she states, “I know I’m doomed.” In “Sally Draper: Upwardly Mobile,” she deems the consolation prize for not following her career path as being relegated to “wife.” For her, this means, “You may start pretty, but you get old fast. You become a secondary character in your own life. A wife.”

Harper foregrounds Sally’s sense of being a “secondary character,” by emphasizing her self-conscious voice and her obsessive need to see herself from afar. Whether she’s painting her lips in Hellbent and Taboo, taking peyote and contemplating the lyrical origins of “Puff the Magic Dragon,” or romanticizing her first abortion as “A calculated fainting” where she should be “woken with smelling salts by ladies in waiting – [her] problems gone,” her inner-monologue captures her disassociated steely understanding of the human condition. Despite the dishonesty and emotional fallout from her parents’ generation, she’s ready for change and wields it like “a sword in a virgin cocktail.”

These poems are not Harper’s first foray into adolescent voices and perspectives. She has also written a poetry collection from the point-of-view of thirteen-year-old girls, What it Feels Like for a Girl, and works on the YTV sitcom, Mr. Young. Incidentally, some years ago, Jennica and I completed our MFAs at UBC together. I remember her being quick even then at cross-hatching pop culture and the ten angst as she does here and in her other poetry collection, The Octopus and Other Poems.

For Harper, youth culture is a poignant watermark of what’s deemed frivolous in the previous generation. Perhaps this is why she is drawn to Sally Draper: because she is such a mercurial figure, as she struggles with realpolitik and her parents’ emotional tailspins into extramarital affairs and vodka martinis. These poems attest to Sally’s sense of unmooring. As Sally herself suggests, “There should be a system,” or at least balefire to illuminate her turn toward adulthood at the cusp of the most explosive youth culture movement in American history.

—Tammy Armstrong

—–

alicia1

§

The Sally Draper Poems by Jennica Harper

 

Sally Draper at the Premiere of Jaws

I recognize that beach. Something about it – even in the dark.

Hey, Martha’s Vineyard!
Shhhh!
Jeez.

I whisper to him. We used to go there in summer.
He rolls his eyes.

We’re under the surface now, with the girl.
She has pretty legs, like a dancer.
They hired that girl just for her legs.

He looks at me. Pleading.
Sorry.
She treads water. I suck in my stomach.

The cold water’s just making me colder.
They sure did crank the A/C – to the point
I barely remember that it’s June.
They made it cold in here
so we’d cuddle up to our boys.

This is me flirting. I know I’m doomed.
He doesn’t look at me. I guess to not
encourage more talking.

The sound kicks in, and I jump a little.
Da-da. Da-da. Da-da. I recognize it as a tuba
from the years Bobby practiced in the basement.
Stuck with that fat thing after being out sick
the day instruments were picked. I take it in. Know
the notes. E-F. EF, EF, EF.

I don’t turn to him. Don’t tell him about the tuba.
Now that I’m quiet, he takes my hand. Rubs
it between his to warm me up.

I know it’s supposed to be scary
but they won’t let this girl be hurt. They can’t.

§

Sally Draper Hides

Ten feet below me
decisions are made.

I hide under the bed, though
she says I’m too old.

You learn a lot, ear to the floor.
Which boards squeak; that the front door

(opening after midnight – witching
hour, I once heard Francine say)

releases a tiny gust of air that floats
up the stairs, ever so stealthy and sweet,

blowing dust bunnies by.
I watch them hop and bob…

they’re dancing like lovers! Or,
it’s possible, running for cover.

§

Sally Draper’s First Kiss

I knew kissing a boy would be different when it wasn’t your brother, I just couldn’t imagine how. I’d turned my hand into a mouth, like Senor Wences (but didn’t let him talk). Brought my hand close, really slowly, shut my eyes most of the way, keeping them open just a slit so I could see, too. Tasted the salt on my fingers; tried to imagine what the hole of my hand was tasting. I’d stuck my tongue in, but there was nothing there, just air.

When finally I made James stay still so I could kiss him, I knew what had been missing: resistance. I slipped my tongue through his teeth, happy he put up a fight. The kiss made me want to pee and made me want to kiss him again. Then James wanted to keep going, and I got distracted by the TV.

Now, whenever I see a ventriloquist – or puppets, Pinocchio, any wooden boy, boy on a string, boy with a hand inside him – I have to excuse myself.

§

Sally Draper Struggles to Buy a Christmas Gift

He’s got no hobbies –
doesn’t fish or golf
like other men.
He’s not cultured.
Wouldn’t care about
opera tickets,
or the new Neil
Diamond. A magazine
subscription’s out,
of course. The ads.
He might wear a tie,
but I can’t bear to buy
him something so dull.
So I choose The Spy
Who Came In From the Cold.
Maybe he’ll see
the symbolism –
a man wanting
out. Hope. The girl.
And if not,
maybe he’ll at least
wonder
why this book, what does it mean,
and he’ll realize I’m
interesting.

§

Sally Draper Buys Red Lipstick

The woman at Marshall’s
lines my lips first, with Brick,
as in House,
as in Shit-A.
I make an O.

Next comes the stick: Dare You.
I want to say, You win!
I’ll buy you, but you’ll just
languish in a drawer
with Hellbent and Taboo.

All my life I have
shied from these lips – his
lips. Bowed and smacking
of blow-up doll…
Ode to an O.

But today I’ll wear red.
The red of a cherry
on a sword in a virgin
cocktail I’ll have to sip
through a straw.

§

Sally Draper: Upwardly Mobile

I’ve seen what happens when you don’t push for it. Follow your dreams. You may start pretty, but you get old fast. You become a secondary character in your own life. A wife.

It’s the kind of war you can’t let them know you’re waging. And you can’t ever fall asleep – or onto a mattress – while on watch.

What they don’t tell you is, you still have to pay your dues. And your dues may mean bringing coffee to men, again and again. A wife on the clock.

At home, my mother had it made and brought to her by the help. Something I think about when I pour.

§

Sally Draper Contemplates the Interstellar Mission

Apparently the planets are aligned,
so they can shoot (launch? dispatch?)
the two pods into deep space – they’ll
hop from orbit to orbit, hitching lifts,
their trajectories curving out, dots
connecting to form a conch-like shell.
I guess Voyager is, kind of, a conch.
We’ve spoken into it, hoping sound travels.
Everything about the mission is designed
with beauty in mind: the hope of it all. The sounds
on the record (whales, that kiss from a mother
to her baby, and my favourite, thunder).
The fact there are two, a pair, twins,
a couple mated for life like swans.

So how come when I think of those things
hurtling out, carrying Earth’s seeds, all I can
think is that we are fucking the universe
like a man fucks a woman, and I want to fuck
the world like that too?

§

Sally Draper Takes Carla Out for Lunch

It’s taken me a year to find
her. There’s no maid directory.
There should be a system; something.

I’d no idea we could live with women
and they could be taken from us and we
could not even know their full names.

She cooked me hot dogs. She taught me
fractions. Once, she spanked me. I
deserved it, and she took no pleasure in it.

I wanted to take her to a nice restaurant, but
on the phone she said no. The lunch counter
at Woolworth’s it is.
When she arrives

she looks the same to me. Except my size,
instead of the powerful figure she’d been.
I stand to hug her, but she sits before I can.

She orders a clubhouse. I barely eat
my salad. I tell her about college. Classes,
living with the girls.

She tells me things have been fine,
she went to work for another family,
with twins. Smart boys. Nice boys.

I tell her she should have pulled the toothpick out
of her sandwich first. She smiles. Pulls
it out. It comes out clean, and I feel sick.

When I can’t stop the tears from coming,
she holds out her napkin. Then changes
her mind, daubs at my eyes.

I thought. I thought.
She says, I know, sweet pea.
You know, you’re nothing like her.

She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
When I get back home I dye my hair
a dull yet shocking shade of black.

§

Sally Draper On Doctors

As soon as she came out,
I bought Surgeon Barbie. Her scrubs
are short, it’s true. Still, score
one for us. I put her box
on my desk for when I study.

I will worship no idols beyond thee!

………………….*

Then it’s Miss America Barbie.
For a laugh, I buy her too. Put
them side by side. But one day
I come home drunk and open her
so I can comb her hair.

I will worship no god but irony.

………………….*

He asks me which I’d rather be:
the career girl or the beauty. Of course,
I say the surgeon. He knows it’s true.
What I don’t say? My doctor, dentist, gynecologist,
therapist… men. Always will be.

I worship you in hopes you’ll worship me.

§

Sally Draper Hears the News

I get the call. Feel my face
go cold. The lion can’t die.

No tears, yet – not till
I’m on the subway, really
trying not to cry. I let a man
give me his seat, and ride
in comfort all the way uptown.

At the wake, I speak, read
Yeats, though I know
he’d have preferred O’Hara.
Tougher. But tough,
the day isn’t for him.
It’s for us, the living.

And I wait for it. The fire.
I expect it to ignite in me,
his fire, it’s my
right, I’m the eldest,
the heir. But the cold
persists. A cold there’s no
coming in from.

Twice a week, I try
his death on for size.
A coat of imaginary grief
I’ll wear like armour.

I should send a card
for his birthday this year.

§

Sally Draper’s First Abortion

Junior year is hard on the girls. Two got married
and quit school. One became a drunk and flunked.
Then there’s me, failing for no good reason
and for the first time, two men in one month.

They ask me who’s picking me up —
I lie. Say my brother, though I haven’t called either
in weeks. I’ll take a cab home, have a nap.
Then study. Clean the kitchen. Be useful.

Except: I didn’t know you were awake
when they did it. I guess I imagined being under.
A calculated fainting, then woken with smelling salts
by ladies in waiting – my problems gone. But no.

Bet she never wondered what kind of mother
she’d be… I call her. There’s no answer. I will not cry.
They say a name, the name I gave them, the other
me, and I stand. Put on my father’s face.

So this is what it’s like to be brave.

§

Sally Draper Will Never Do Mescaline Again

It’s natural. It’s from a cactus. Native Americans
in Mehico have been using it
for thousands of years.

Yeah, but there weren’t cars you could get hit by.
Or fifth-story windows to jump out of.

Do you trust yourself, Sally?

Not really.

[…]

Just, put it in a drink or something.
I don’t want to taste it.

Even you have limits
for what you’ll put in your mouth,
huh?

Funny.

Now we wait. Soon the backs of our
eyelids will be like stained glass.

Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea

My dad used to sing me that song.
But he’d turn Little Jackie Paper
into Little Sally Draper

That’s sweet.

Ehn.

That song’s about grass. You want some?

It is not.
And yes.

It’s a well documented fact. Ask anyone.

[Without warning, it hits me. I want to ask him.
I want to call, wake him up, beg him
not for the truth
but for what I want to hear.
He was always good
at what I want to hear. But
I don’t know his number
off by heart, I’d have to
call information.]

I’m feeling pretty good. How about you, Sall…?
Sallster? I’m sall…ivating. For you.

Shut up.

Are you crying?

I’m Jackie, and I’m Puff.
I left and am left behind.

[…]

I am going to be like this
for the rest of my life.

Would that be so bad?

[…]

 —Jennica Harper

.

Jennica Harper’s books of poetry are What It Feels Like for a Girl (Anvil Press) and The Octopus and Other Poems (Signature Editions). In 2012, What It Feels Like for a Girl was published as an e-book for Kindle and Kobo, and was adapted into one-third of the critically acclaimed theatrical experience Initiation Trilogy at the Vancouver International Writers Festival (Marita Dachsel/Electric Company). The Sally Draper Poems are part of a new manuscript, Wood. Jennica is also a screenwriter and is currently working on YTV’s teen comedy Mr. Young.

§

Our guest introducer Tammy Armstrong‘s poetry has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, US, Europe, UK, and Algeria. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, the Governor General’s Award, and short-listed twice for the CBC Literary Prize. She is currently a PhD candidate at the University of New Brunswick, working in Critical Animal Studies and North Atlantic Poetry.

Capture

Tammy Armstrong

.
.

Nov 062012
 


(photo credit: Don Denton)

These most recent poems from Nicole Markotić are raunchy little imp dances; they’re a lover that won’t stop punning, half love, half madness. Each “sentence” gives and then takes away, coy perhaps, but in charge. No Scheherazade poetics here you’ll see soon enough; there’s a painfully lovely dawning awareness that we’re the ones who dance here, and we dance for her.

— R W Gray

 

Staying In

a boat skims the surface, plastic rudder aligns with the pond’s sundial, the canons prepped and
aiming. toys for US

who let the cat into the bag?

curtains drain the sun, your air conditioning follows Mars. I’ll bet it’s noon, now. I’ll bet it’s
break-time in Copenhagen

worry from your lower back, down. a crisis of German emerges from the ankles up

do you fing-er, or do you fing-Ger? long-er, or long-Ger?

aqua naps help cut the string that pulls maps closed

but only by name tag

there’s been a pneumatic leakage, a quarantined seepage, lay people lay about, their intention is freakage

my angle, usually indigenous, remains bent at the elbow

thigh high, my big toe plays abacus in the cricket park, a bat per person

we’re all thumbs today, meaning my finGers are toe-like

close every ocular door with a deaf testimonial, and remind the lip-reading alligators that kennels proliferate

ken you ken where I’m kent?

hurry and ketchup, the sundial’s ticking

 

wrinkling the cut-offs

Not only Echinacea Purple Cone, but dried Arugula and Potato Vines. A berry crawls across the rough cement, thirty-seven moths sneeze irregularly, and succulents refuse to believe in westward shade.

Calandis blows on her Peruvian flute, covering the middle tubes with her mouth, and Shao-Chiu
wears his spider-man mask. It’s too big, so his nose hole sits on his forehead between the insect-
blue eyes. She climbed the windows, he lurched from the television. Pleats in their shirts mean
ironing might be closer than you think. A popsicle during the heat wave simply

Motor vehicles insist that twelve times twelve equals, but does today count if it’s past midnight?

I meant to look up IESB, but Firefly parodies took over.

A racket of scrambling, a drip of Shala-sweat, a wrist-bone releases, and fingernails flutter to the tiles. I have counted up the list 49-million times and the answer always equals.

Sonnets breathe 14 yoga inhales. Each one a pause, pause in German. Rush home while the rushing’s good. Ghosts slip up as often in the mortal world. Could you walk that way? Do you bury saws? Two screws in the lawnmower, one above the kitchen counter. Check. Don’t dismiss this information as poetry.

I’m still stopping.

 

at risk or at least?

sloping from the TransCanada:

a road crew to repair the prairie rain that slid the hill down the sidewalk

three riders on one wheelchair, chasing cross-traffic

a pedestrian bridge where kids leap up, just as the cars pass beneath

used spiderman webs, dangling from rescue trees

wading pool asthma

and three blackbirds, pecking at peanut shells beside the hot yoga shala

could tomorrow pack in murderball and taxes, a porch sonata and processed wedding speeches, emails to two Karls, and leg passports?

when didn’t hot-and-bothered last all night?

but how much ink on paper defines a thorough edit?

A Voice, then a Crow.

friends fly east, west, and north. I sit facing south, in the shade, late in the evening, on a flat piece of cement, dying for loopholes

and when tomorrow isn’t what the early-bird brings?

 

Count Down

Bamboo sheets and then the covers, in waves. Soft and caramel, but only in the morning. A dripping and a placebo. Misty. We’ve stroked the fibres of thick thickness, and double for tissue need, but not on weekdays. Whoever could have? A cardboard box, a cardboard railing, a cardboard pre-packaged breakfast extravaganza. And yes, just as good! Fourteen raisins and three eggs and five pills and the dregs off loose tea. One mug. Not my nose, not my shoulder, not the kneecaps, not seven of the toes, not the light switch instead of paint-stained berber. Elevator doors, but only on the way down. Remind me to pulse a few times on the 13th. Remind me to swallow. Did I ask?

Yes, swishing air, but not so’s y’d notice.

A metal handle, four car keys, and the wheel inside the wheel, ever-burning. Four times a scratched nose, and sixteen hair-flips but who says for show? The inside of an orange peel, but only twice by accident. Seventeen times on the radio, six on the computer. Ahem.

A sneeze that twirled inside niacin. But basically because Benjamin demanded diced celery at the precise corner of Pine and Windy. I’m not making this up. Too many buttons, or knobs, or “press one for”s or keypads or take-out packets to list. I’ll list as I lean. Lean as I learn. Learn from the fingertips, in. Yes, the bah dies. Bathe eyes.

A series of pages, not all poetry, but enough to justify the gutter restraints. Tainted by re. Re-up the upside, or the insect, or the smash-up. Windsor rain, on the downside. Seven doors. More books, in retail. More pens, in trade. More sleeves and file folders and dust that doesn’t count and counter surfaces that do. A penultimum of half-price merchandise.

And finally: each other, but as explicitly as yummy digitals.

 


“Thefts, Contortions, & Yogic Breathing: Nicole Markotić’s Trickster Poetics”

Nicole Markotić’s poetry is kinetic. In both of her collections, Minotaurs and Other Alphabets (1998) and Bent at the Spine (2012), her aesthetics torque the prose poem until it transforms into something hectic, witty, and earnest. For Markotić, the loosely structured versification of the prose poem avoids the “and/or” pitfalls that Western traditional poetry and prose rely on. By disregarding formal line breaks and punctuation, her prosody conveys a more natural pause. This genre-crossing makes for a paratactic exploration that broaches complex questions concerning nationalism, feminism, and language.

She further complicates this exploration through her inclusion of overheard conversations. These dislocated voices often become her titles. They underscore her interest in multiple perspectives and reveal how her attentive eavesdropping comes from being preeminently concerned with physical and metaphorical margins—margins which locate the cultural idiom through sound bites, double entendres, and puns that stack the poem with polyvocal suggestion. Markotić’s work exhibits a trickster quality in that she steals language and then returns it in altered forms. Her intertextual links rework language within the poem and provide a way of listening attentively to the world.

As the selection below attests, her poetry grows out of the sentence. It is the “sentential piece,” in her words, that encourages “plasticity resistant to notions of purity in either prose or poetry.” Markotić’s use of the prose poem is her way of subverting the Western traditional poem, the poem that she deems a patriarchal device that doesn’t provide ample space for marginal voices. “I’m always stopping,” she remarks as though her thoughts cannot be completed because the medium does not encourage it or because she is hesitant in her own abilities to speak through the tradition. She reinforces this difficulty, in the selection here, in a variety of ways. In two of the poems, for example, she evokes “shala.” as “the hot yoga shala” and “Shala-sweat.” As it’s unclear if she is referring to the war goddess Shala, or to the Sanskriti word for yoga studio, she emphasizes the arbitrariness of language. Both meanings, however, may be anchors—avatar and shelter—for celebrating Markotić’s assertion that subversions of language demand closer attention. “Too many buttons, or knobs,” she reminds us in another place, “’or press one for’s or keypads or take-out packets to list. I’ll list as I lean. Lean as I learn.” And here the word play on “list” suggests lists of problems in a techno-centric world that no longer provides person-to-person encounters. “List” also alludes to listening, enclosing an area for battle, desiring, accepting a challenge, stitching something together, and, among still others, to leaning to one side or losing equilibrium. All of these definitions add complexity and suggest that there are no absolutes.

Because Markotić’s world is without absolutes, she often alludes to uncertainty.  Even ephemeral elements play an important part in her explorations. As she observes in “wrinkling the cut-offs,” “Ghosts slip up as often in the mortal world.” Through this statement, she subsequently generates the question: “Could you walk that way?” The question confounds and conflates. It is unclear if it responds to the statement, meaning should we act as ghosts when we make mistakes? Or is her question an independent thought, a tangent triggered by something physical in her periphery, something that interrupts the previous thought?  This is one way she keeps her language in motion.

The physical body is also essential to her re-workings of language and movement. It is often a field for converging discomforts, emphasizing that, for her, “the prose poem is a poetic strategy embedded within the structure of narrative, and a feminist response to patriarchal language and forms.”  Even the title, Bent at the Spine, suggests physical contortions, a doubling, as well as splitting something, such as a book, in an irreparable way. “Staying In,” from this selection, is a good example of how Markotić slides from the personal and physical to global concerns through her stylistic and formal innovations. The sentence, of course, provides interconnectivity for her shifts between lenses. She writes, “worry from your lower back, down. a crisis of German emerges from the ankles up.” Elsewhere, she writes, “Sonnets breathe 14 yoga inhales,” thus becoming a manifestation of body and language.

Her line breaks and tumbling thoughts are also physical impositions onto the poem. They embody the reader, highlighting her inclusive project. By incorporating colloquial language and found speech fragments from public places, she beguiles the reader into a kind of subtext to the dialogue. On a re-reading, however, the strangeness and ragged breathing patterns that may have been overlooked the first read, pushes through. She asks in this selection, ”Do you bury saws?” And before we have a chance to find our footing and an answer, she’s off on a strangely domestic and disconcerting check-list that sounds vaguely familiar: “Two screws in the lawnmower, one above the kitchen counter. Check. Don’t dismiss this information as poetry.” The essential nature of Markotić’s world is made up of these glimpses and fleeting moments.

While this discursiveness is present in Minotaurs and Other Alphabets, Bent at the Spine is much more fractured and concerned with accommodating more voices. It is perhaps an ethical turn: by situating her own voice as one among many, she encourages autonomy and community.  By fusing these voices to both her attention-deficit sentence and to the body, she conveys the repressiveness she feels in having to lock down her thoughts. Marcotić isn’t interested in polite, normative poetics and she doesn’t meander on the neat path through traditional structure. Her sentences stand discursive beside each other in order to capture the rhythms of an uneasy urban vernacular. If we have normalized our isolations and shortened our attention spans to cater to dramatic transformations of movement and interaction, then poetry, for her, is panacea for jarring us out of this state of quickening. So that patch of Trans-Canada, that hot yoga studio or that hard rain is familiar to us but still strange. It’s Marcotić’s plasticity again, her resourceful poetics steeped in re-mapping the phenomenal and outcries of the body in order to prompt you: Look again. Take none of this at face value.

–Tammy Armstrong


Tammy Armstrong’s poetry has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, US, Europe, UK, and Algeria. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, the Governor General’s Award, and short-listed twice for the CBC Literary Prize. She is currently a PhD candidate at the University of New Brunswick, working in Critical Animal Studies and North Atlantic Poetry.