Below is an “obscene” poem by Erica Jong (EJ) which I shamelessly lifted from her website.
This is the long tunnel of wanting you.
Its walls are lined with remembered kisses
wet & red as the inside of your mouth,
full & juicy as your probing tongue,
warm as your belly against mine,
deep as your navel leading home,
soft as your sleeping cock beginning to stir,
tight as your legs wrapped around mine,
straight as your toes pointing toward the bed
as you roll over & thrust your hardness
into the long tunnel of my wanting,
seeding it with dreams & unbearable hope,
making memories of the future,
straightening out my crooked past,
teaching me to live in the present present tense
with the past perfect and the uncertain future
suddenly certain for certain
in the long tunnel of my old wanting
which before always had an ending
but now begins & begins again
with you, with you, with you.
* * *
Last night, after watching CNN, I wrote a poem that I was cheesily wanting to dedicate to Charlie Hebdo. Like most of my poems, it had very little rhyme and much sentimentality. I wanted to stick a finger down my throat while reading it. I don’t know how EJ do them… I love her poems, even the sedate non-sexy ones.
A few days ago, my mother’s brother, Rolly (who was a soldier) had his left foot amputated. Of course, one doesn’t need to be a soldier to be a hero. One doesn’t have to be violent to be a hero. Maybe the most difficult form of heroism is that which demands us to hunker down and bear that which is unbearable.
The more difficult of the most difficult form of wanting to be “hero” is the willingness to die so innocents may be spared of pain … to illustrate, please google “Jose Rizal”, “Mahatma Gandhi” and even “Jesus Christ” — who (the bitchy part of me would think) were all suckers whose life’s ambition was to be a “hero”.
I hate pain. I think if I had lived in 1940s Germany, I would have probably collaborated with the Nazis to avoid being tortured. If I had lived in Mao Zedong’s China, I would have killed my parents and joined the Red Guards if it meant that I can have a few comforts in life (as a member of the Communist party, I surely would have). The North Koreans can relate to this. It is excruciating to act “the hero” and endure pain, hunger and humiliation.
Sometimes I think that I write because the written word is my own form of struggle; it is my chosen battlefield, so to speak. It is a different battlefield compared to the operating room, and has its unique and quaint form of stresses.
I write because I choose this form of dying … when words drip and they frustrate me because they don’t make sense. When my rambling sentences are gutted and routed by my viciously disdainful internal censor. When I cannot choose between a comma and a semi-colon, and end up using one over the other; but I get stabbed anyway (which just goes to show that punctuation pyrotechnics are useless if one’s thought processes are not lucid).
There is an adrenaline rush, a quickening of the heart, as I look on at letters that become words then sentences or stanzas … that hopefully, will mean something. And will live on (probably in hard drives or in cyberspace) despite myself.