Molly and Sam (draft)

Sam came home late, the lamplight on his dressing table was still on, just as he left it that morning before heading off to work, just as he had the night before that. He’d worked late every night that week; it seemed the lamplight had been on all that time, there to greet the streetlights when Sam got home, and there to wish them goodnight as he left for work. His bed was unmade; his dressing gown on the floor.

But something was amiss: the telephone at his bedside was also on the floor. He didn’t knock it off. In fact, he hadn’t used it in six months. A frosty breeze was in the process of cooling his whole apartment; his bedroom was just a few degrees shy of the outside cold. The sun had only set an hour before. He traced the cool wind to the kitchen. The sink was cold to the touch, as was the fridge door; his bare feet on the kitchen floor confirmed that a window must be open nearby. The kitchen/dining room window was open, a couple of inches. The smoke, he thought. The smoke in the morning, his head out the window to keep the smell out. It was a pointless ritual because the whole apartment stank.

He had left the window open while he was out, but he couldn’t be sure if it were just today, or the whole week. Moving through the house, he turned on every light: the kitchen/dining room, the lounge room, the bedroom, and the toilet lights. A cupboard was open in the kitchen; a wooden chair was overturned; six empty bottles were scattered about the floor, a speaker for his television set with them. This isn’t how he had left the apartment, he thought. He moved quickly back to his bedroom and, throwing away the blankets of his bed, he dropped to his knees, then bent under the bed. He emerged, with wriggles and groans, with a shoe box, the lid still intact. Dishevelled from the mild exertion he rolled to a seated position, his back against his bed. He furrowed his brow as he lifted the lid: all the letters were there. Every one of them; he counted. His heavy breath eased. He looked up; the clinking of two bottles from the lounge room had brought his heavy breathing back. Tucking the shoe box under his arm, he crawled awkwardly to the lamplight, turning it off, then crawled towards the door, lying prone on his belly. His breathed whistled through his nose; he was sure it was loud enough to hear from the other room. He couldn’t stop. He breathed in deep and coughed.

He held his breath for five seconds, trying to be silent, to hear what was happening. Another clink. Slowly, he rose to his knees; he planted his free hand to brace himself, then extended one leg. He paused, stopped breathing; he could hear nothing. He placed the shoe boxed on the floor, and slide it towards the bed; with sharp, deep breaths he stood up, fist clenched, his eyes adjusting to the light. He mouthed the words, “one” – “two” – “three.” He ran through his bedroom door down the short corridor to the lounge room/kitchen/dining room area, growling first, erupting into a deep-throated yell. He stood prepared to fight, prepared to be struck – nothing.

“Where are you – cunt.” he yelled. His fist still clenched, held up in a defensive pose. He paused, his nose whistling. He heard a squeak and a clatter. The kitchen! But he could see nothing; all the lights were on. Nothing. No shadow. “Who’s there?” he said, with a wrinkled nose, stepping slowly toward the kitchen. He heard another noise: plastic tapping against plastic. “Molly?” he whispered. Meow. “Mol-ly!” a little ginger cat slid bashfully from behind the kitchen counter. Meow. “Molly.” He cracked his fingers, walked over, and picked up the young ginger cat with both hands, placing her on the counter. Closing his eyes, he brought his face to hers; she head-butted him and he laughed. She purred. He stood there for some time has she head-butted him twice more.

Sam picked up Molly again and carried her to his bedroom, turning the light back on he walked in and sat on the bed. She walked all over his unmade bed, purring and sniffing furiously. He bent over and picked up the shoe box on the floor, sitting it next to him. Molly came over and sniffed inside; she sneezed. He laughed. He scratched her chin, her eyes closed as she tilted her head backward. With his free hand he took out a letter from the shoe box. He opened it, then paused, stopped scratching Molly’s head, at which she opened her eyes and questioned him brushing her head against the letter. “I wrote these ten years ago; she kept them all – then gave them back.” He smiled sadly. He took a breath and sighed. “Dear Molly,” he read out loud.

Pronominal Poetics: "This Is How It Goes."

In adopting the poetic stance we adopt the posture of reading the poem (and there is a definite posture to reading); the articulatory or verbal gestures of the poem become our own. The standing is also a pointing or an indicating. As the poem nods or winks or grins or raises a subtle eyebrow, so do we, the reader. This is how it goes.

“This” is a pronoun; it points to where it stands. This is where it stands. This is how it goes. Not “that,” which points to the past or to some other place. This is the present, for the poetic experience is always in the present. When we adopt the poetic stance we are always adopting it here and now. If “this” is the poetic experience, then “it” is the poem.

The poem is a pronominal object that points elsewhere; it stands for the complex of sounds and associations that constitute the poetic experience; in essence, the poem is pronominal for the poetic experience. The poem, the “it,” points to “you” and “me” the reader, and it points to the poetic experience that you and I will have. “This” is the experience of “it.” This is how it goes. It is an experience.

“Is” is the pure copula, connecting the subject to its predicate, connecting “this” to “how it goes.” The pure copula has no content except to signify existence, that “this” and “it” are connected. But “this” is how it goes. “This” is the “how,” the “how” of “it.” “How” is a conjunction. “How” connects the pronoun “this” to the pronoun “it” and its existence is asserted by the pure copula “is.” “How” is the “manner in which” of “this,” how it goes.

“Goes” is the verb, simple present tense and intransitive. “To go” means to move, to go from one place to another. “This,” the poetic experience, is “how,” the manner in which, “it,” the poem, goes. This is how it goes. But “it” goes nowhere but within the reader, for whom “this” is the experience of “it,” here and now, the manner in which the poem moves within you and me.

In adopting the poetic stance, we adopting the standing of the poem, its posture, the way it stands in relation to other things, what “it” is about. “This” is how the poem goes about being about what it is within the reader’s adoption of the poetic stance. The reader stands for the poem by adopting its stance, and what the poem stands for becomes what the reader stands for. This is how it goes.

Poem: [Poetry should be just a little sexual]

Poetry should be just a little sexual;

It rolls around the mouth, across the tongue;

The fingertips outstretch and poised; the lips

Puckered, pursed, now pouting to pronounce.

What’s not to be aroused by there? The sounds

Of sweet love-making bound up in the mouth and hands.