The ï»żViolence ï»żQuestion, Answered by a Goat      Or, Notes Toward a Discourse on Hauntinï»żg through Poetry," Jeananne Verlee
âThey would / Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees / Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder.â         Â
           â Brigit Pegeen Kelly, from âSongâ
I was once asked to discuss the âbrutal experiences [my] poetic bodies sufferâ and in hindsight, I think perhaps I dodged the intent of the question, discussing more the manner in which my work dresses up/spins the violenceâless about the violence itself, where it comes from, why I choose to include it.Â
My father is a hunter. I was raised by death. At times we were markedly poor. When we finished the seasonâs kill my father had stocked away in the freezer and money ran thin before payday, my lunch was packed with creative wonders like crackers and mustard or carrots and spiced vinegar. Mother made do. Over time, I stopped eating meat altogether. It was easier. Cheaper. I didnât have to kill anything.Â
When I was quite young, a neighbor girl made habit of crossing through our backyard to climb the fence into her own yard. One day I stopped her in the walkway, told her she couldnât cut through anymore. She tried to pass anyway. I knocked her to the ground and said something awful. She told her mother. Who told my mother. Who smacked me. The girl never cut through our yard again.Â
Once, my grandmother found and gave to me a robinâs egg. Perfectly blue. I let it sit for weeks in a makeshift nest and call to its family. Then I cracked it open because I knew that it was no longer its motherâs. I marveled at its milky yellow yolk, perfect and miniature. When my mother found the halved shell, she smacked me.Â
In seventh grade, I was shy and gangly and awkward. That year, a girl intentionally kicked a soccer ball into my face and I sat still and bled all over the gym floor. That year, another girl body-slammed me into my locker, demanding I never set eyes on her again. I turned red and went to class. That year, a group of girls raided my gym locker. Iâd forgotten my padlock. Afraid to take a fail for the day, I changed clothes, folded the brand new checkered fleece pullover my mom had spent months saving to buy me for Christmas, and prayed. After class, the locker was empty. Only paper and textbooks left on the floor. I wore dirty gym clothes to all my classes. Everyone noticed. Later that week, I spotted my fleece on a popular boy who was flanked by girls from my gym class. I did nothing. Everyone noticed.
Once, I rescued a wounded bird whoâd been struck from her nest during a storm. Once, I rescued a feral kitten who was drenched in vomit. Once, I rescued an abandoned dog riddled with mange who was roaming the side of a highway. I write all my animals into brutality. Iâm always trying to prove a point.
When I was 12, a boy I liked tied my wrists with a phone cord and raped me while eight of his friends watched and cheered. Then they ransacked our house. They fled when my father arrived. He asked if I was running a whorehouse.Â
I was introduced to Brigit Pegeen Kellyâs poem, âSongâ by my dear friend and poet, Scott Beal. Familiar with my compulsion to navigate violence through surrealism, he knew this poem would reach me. He knew that a goatâs severed head singing a sweet song into the night would reach me. He knew the poetic bodies of girl and goat and mischievous boys would reach me.
Once, I accidentally hurt a boy while skipping rocks in a creek. The blood was staggering. He told his mother. Who told my mother. I ran and hid. When she found me, she dragged me from my hiding spot, refused to hear the story. I offered my middle finger and she beat me.Â
Once, I was charged by a German shepherd. I stood my ground. I did not flinch. I did not run. He circled me and came to a halt. He let me touch him. Stroke his neck. Read his tags. I returned him to his family.
When I was 15, a boy I liked pressed a knife to my throat and described the sound of cutting through bone. He explained how easy it would be to kill me. I dared him to do it. When he couldnât, I called him a coward.Â
Each time I introduce âSongâ in workshop, I lose time to someone debating its place in the genre of poetry. Is this even a poem? It looks like prose. Reads like a fable. Itâs called âSong,â maybe itâs just a song? No stanzas? What is a poem at all? What is poetry? But I force my own patience. I know what will come. Awe of magic. Resistance to slaughter. Admiration of language. Empathy. Lament. Wonder. Grief. Solace in making magic from suffering.
Tucked somewhere in a family album on a shelf in someoneâs living room there is a yellowing photograph of me as child holding a carving knife to the skinned haunches of a slaughtered antelope. I am smiling.
Once, my mother smacked me and I struck her back. She beat me to the floor. I covered the welts with makeup and went to school. Â
Once, my motherâs boyfriend showed up drunk with a prizefighting pit bull. He locked the dog in the garage and disappeared for months. I kept her fed but she was impossibly vicious. Animal control killed her on-site after scarcely any questions. I still canât forgive myself.
When I was in high school, I went to punk rock shows and slammed my body against other bodies over and over in the mosh pit because I had nowhere to place my rage.
When my mother turned up with a bruised lip, I threatened her boyfriend with a baseball bat.Â
The boy with the knife stalked me for a decade.
Once, I found a mutilated cat whoâd fallen from the window of a high rise apartment. I knelt near him, ready to end his suffering with my own hands. A neighbor arrived just then, insisting she take him to a veterinarian. I told her he needed to be euthanized. I told her to hurry.Â
Once, during an argument, I leapt on the hood of a boyfriendâs car as he was driving off. I slammed my fists against the windshield over and over. My hands turned the color of charcoal.Â
When presenting âSongâ at a recent workshop, an unfriendly woman looked me directly in the eyes and began to berate meâin third person, passively vicious: If sheâs teaching poetry, shouldnât she bring a poem? Shouldnât she be able to define poetry? Why is she leading this? I suppressed the urge to choke her. Later that evening, I read my own violent poems and she bought my books and thanked me for telling her story. I suppressed the urge to choke her.
When I was 27, I was gang raped by four men for three hours.Â
Once, my father locked me in my room for some bratty adolescent transgression. When he came back to talk it over, I was so enraged about being trapped, I slammed my fists into his back.
Once, I spotted my motherâs abusive ex-boyfriend at a bar. I approached his table and reminded him who I was. Told his friends what heâd done. Taunted him. Dared him to touch me as he had her. When he finally erupted, I smiled. A brawl broke out. I struck and struck. Like a need.Â
When I was 36, a man I was dating attacked me in my sleep. Raped me in my own bed. I threatened to cut him. He called me crazy. Then didnât. Then did. He confessed. Blamed a dubious psychiatric disorder. Apologized. Then didnât. He threatened to ruin me. Started stalking me. My friends. He threatened them. Their children. Called us liars. Then didnât. Then did.
Doctors say I have PTSD. I donât sleep. I panic in rooms with too many men. I flinch in tight spaces. I keep my tongue. Then I riot. I keep calm. Then I ignite.Â
A more adequate answer to the brutality question might have been: Writing the violence not only allows me to release it, it allows me to haunt its agents.
I punched a hole in the bathroom wall at 12. Gashed furniture at 15. Seared tire marks into pavement at 22. Punched a taxicab window at 27. Dislocated a door at 31. Knocked a hole in my bedroom wall at 39. I bloodied my knuckles on a wall/table/door/window at 16, 17, 18, 21, 25, 27, 31, 39. I cut into my own arms. I beat bruises into my own body. I opened my own wrist. Because rage. And grief. And survive. Because there is nowhere to place all of this.
Once, I collapsed on the sidewalk in a town I do not know because the weight of violence was more than my bones could continue to bear. I crumbled like so much sand. And no one stopped. And no one helped. And I was that girl on the gymnasium floor again. Thirty-eight and still covered in my own blood. And I hauled myself up off the ground. And I hauled myself down the street and across all the miles back to New York City and into a police station and into an interrogation room and I told them how I got here. How a woman survives and survives until she doesnât anymore. I told them about the boys and all of their hands. About their hearts beating harder.
Once, a friend showed me a poem about magic. A poem about loss. A beautiful poem about the brutal suffering of poetic bodies. A sweet goat who cried and struggled. A girl who loved a whole love and lost her love to a grisly stunt. A poem about grief. The fracture of irreparable grief. A poem where a heart can fly as a bird in the night sky. Where the massacred sing and go on signing. Where the tormenters learn to listen. Once, a sweet goatâs severed head reminded me how to sing. How to haunt. Â
Link to âSongâ by Brigit Pegeen Kelly:Â
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/song#
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