One Poet Out of Five – Terrance Hayes Makes the National Book Awards Short List

American Poet Terrance Hayes. Photo from the MacArthur Foundation website.

American Poet Terrance Hayes. Photo from the MacArthur Foundation website.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from How To Draw A Perfect Circle

………..Before that day the officer had never fired his gun
In the line of duty. He was chatting with a cabdriver
Beneath the tracks when my cousin circled him holding a knife.

The wound caused no brain damage though his eyeball was severed.
I am not sure how a man with no eye weeps. In the Odyssey
Pink water descends the Cyclops’s cratered face after Odysseus

Drives a burning log into it. Anyone could do it. Anyone could
Begin the day with his eyes and end it blind or deceased,
Anyone could lose his mind or his vision. When I go crazy

I am afraid I will walk the streets naked, I am afraid I will shout
Every fucked up thing that troubles or enchants me, I will try to murder
Or make love to everybody before the police handcuff or murder me.

Terrance Hayes from How To Be Drawn, Penguin Poets, 2015 and Poetry Magazine December, 2014

Last month in a blog post I featured Jane Hirschfield, one of the ten poetry long list nominees for the 2015 National Book Award and I promised a second part to that post that would feature Terrance Hayes, another long list nominee, for his collection How To Be Drawn. But because of a month long trip away I never followed up with the Hayes post before the short list was announced a few days ago. I am disappointed Hirschfield didn’t make it; but glad Hayes did. To read my August blog post on Hayes click here.

In his poem How to Draw a Perfect Circle Hayes writes: Everything is connected. He breaks the line at the end of this fragment so that even though the fragment is part of a longer grammatical sentence it stands out as a complete thought on its own. The beauty of a great line break.

Everything is connected. This fragment spells out a critical element to how Hayes writes. How he braids unexpected and seemingly unconnected narrative threads in a poem and creates a coherent unity. Through this he creates a freshness in his writing because of his surprising and acrobatic leaps which, by the poem’s end, land, one by one, on their feet!

I have read How to Draw a Perfect Circle many times. I will read it many more. It is that compelling. It is that complex.  A poem that sings with lyric intensity. A poem that aches inside its encircling contradictions: the beauty of a nude being drawn opposed to the shocking violence of a policeman stabbed in the eye and then the reference to the  Cyclops  blinded by Odysseus in Homer’s Odyssey. The erotic and violent side by side. I will try to murder/ Or make love to everybody before the police handcuff or murder me.

How Hayes creates unity out of disunity. How he makes a unifying circle out of many parts. How he pays attention. The lines that drove me into this poem as hard as Odysseus drove the log into the Cyclops’s eye are these:

I am not sure how a man with no eye weeps. In the Odyssey
Pink water descends the Cyclops’s cratered face after Odysseus

Drives a burning log into it.

How many miss that in reading Homer. How many clue in that pink water most likely means the Cyclops’ blood mingles with tears. Yet how can someone weep without an eye? What a question? What attention to detail. What a sharp eye Hayes has.

Here, now, is the full poem:

 

How to Draw a Perfect Circle

I can imitate the spheres of the model’s body, her head,
Her mouth, the chin she rests at the bend of her elbow
But nothing tells me how to make the pupils spiral

From her gaze. Everything the eye sees enters a circle,
The world is connected to a circle: breath spools from the nostrils
And any love to be open becomes an O. The shape inside the circle

Is a circle, the egg fallen outside the nest the serpent circles
Rests in the serpent’s gaze the way my gaze rests on the model.
In a blind contour drawing the eye tracks the subject

Without observing what the hand is doing. Everything is connected
By a line curling and canceling itself like the shape of a snake
Swallowing its own decadent tail or a mind that means to destroy itself,

A man circling a railway underpass before attacking a policeman.
To draw the model’s nipples I have to let myself be carried away.
I love all the parts of the body. There are as many curves

As there are jewels of matrimony, as many whirls as there are teeth
In the mouth of the future: the mute pearls a bride wears to her 
wedding,
The sleeping ovaries like the heads of riders bunched in a tunnel.

The doors of the subway car imitate an O opening and closing,
In the blood the O spirals its helix of defects, genetic shadows,
But there are no instructions for identifying loved ones who go crazy.

When one morning a black man stabs a black transit cop in the face
And the cop, bleeding from his eye, kills the assailant, no one traveling
To the subway sees it quickly enough to make a camera phone 
witness.

The scene must be carried on the tongue, it must be carried
On the news into the future where it will distract the eyes working
Lines into paper. This is what blind contour drawing conjures in me.

At the center of God looms an O, the devil believes justice is shaped
Like a zero, a militant helmet or war drum, a fist or gun barrel,
A barrel of ruined eggs or skulls. To lift anything from a field

The lifter bends like a broken O. The weight of the body
Lowered into a hole can make anyone say Oh: the onlookers,
The mother, the brothers and sisters. Omen begins with an O.

When I looked into my past I saw the boy I had not seen in years
Do a standing backflip so daring the onlookers called him crazy.
I did not see a moon as white as an onion but I saw a paper plate

Upon which the boy held a plastic knife and sopping meat.
An assailant is a man with history. His mother struggles
To cut an onion preparing a meal to be served after the funeral.

The onion is the best symbol of the O. Sliced, a volatile gas stings
The slicer’s eyes like a punishment clouding them until they see
What someone trapped beneath a lid of water sees:

A soft-edged world, a blur of blooms holding a coffin afloat.
The onion is pungent, its scent infects the air with sadness,
All the pallbearers smell it. The mourners watch each other,

They watch the pastor’s ambivalence, they wait for the doors to open,
They wait for the appearance of the wounded one-eyed victim
And his advocates, strangers who do not consider the assailant’s funeral

Appeasement. Before that day the officer had never fired his gun
In the line of duty. He was chatting with a cabdriver
Beneath the tracks when my cousin circled him holding a knife.

The wound caused no brain damage though his eyeball was severed.
I am not sure how a man with no eye weeps. In the Odyssey
Pink water descends the Cyclops’s cratered face after Odysseus

Drives a burning log into it. Anyone could do it. Anyone could
Begin the day with his eyes and end it blind or deceased,
Anyone could lose his mind or his vision. When I go crazy

I am afraid I will walk the streets naked, I am afraid I will shout
Every fucked up thing that troubles or enchants me, I will try to murder
Or make love to everybody before the police handcuff or murder me.

Though the bullet exits a perfect hole it does not leave perfect holes
In the body. A wound is a cell and portal. Without it the blood runs
With no outlet. It is possible to draw handcuffs using loops

Shaped like the symbol for infinity, from the Latin infinitas
Meaning unboundedness. The way you get to anything
Is context. In a blind contour it is not possible to give your subject

A disconnected gaze. Separated from the hand the artist’s eye
Begins its own journey. It could have been the same for the Cyclops,
A giant whose gouged eye socket was so large a whole onion

Could fit into it. Separated from the body the eye begins
Its own journey. The world comes full circle: the hours, the harvests,
When the part of the body that holds the soul is finally decomposed

It becomes a circle, a hole that holds everything: blemish, cell,
Womb, parts of the body no one can see. I watched the model
Pull a button loose on her jeans and step out of them

As one might out of a hole in a blue valley, a sea. I found myself
In the dark, I found myself entering her body like a delicate shell
Or soft pill, like this curved thumb of mine against her lips.

You must look without looking to make the perfect circle.
The line, the mind must be a blind continuous liquid
Until the drawing is complete.

Terrance Hayes from How To Be Drawn, Penguin Poets, 2015 and Poetry Magazine December, 2014

And talk about coming full circle. How the poem begins with the model and ends, so erotically, with her. She becomes the perfect circle Hayes enters . And even more: how all the references to losing sight (the policemen, the Cyclops) come back to his assertion that:

You must look without looking to make the perfect circle.
The line, the mind must be a blind continuous liquid
Until the drawing is complete.

How to see beyond sight. Beyond the obvious. The seeing of great painters, the seeing of great poets. The seeing of Terrance Hayes

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