Susannah's View of Henry James

Feb. 10th, 2011 at 8:44 AM

(Or "James Strikes Again")



I came to teach sophistry,

an ancient novel in my pocket,

scooped from a used book bin for a dime,

looking for a summary.

Asked Susannah, who worshipped the Sophists from the first row,

did you know

Henry James burnt his own balls?



He became such a celebrated fool for it, followed by

whispers in salons and nods of intense knowing.

He danced around his own core, things not to be mentioned

he waffled, he wavered, it seemed intentional, a device to obscure hurt

I think he crossed out everything he really meant to say,

hiding his secrets in unsent letters,

I think he was a liar,

mused Susannah.



Gnarled with denied hunger,

unrecognizable, even to himself.

so we all celebrate our own grotesqueries

softened and slumped over time, like tombstone shoulders,

A pedophile and horrified at himself, in your book,

Quint the devil on his shoulder, Miles his greatest torment

All loathed parts of him are dead by story end, and rightly so,

concluded Susannah.



So as not to be revealed a monster

I tossed the work aside, and it sprouted wings and

flew out of the classroom window,

an ancient arrow, shot from a broken bow,

where it pierced an optimistic novelist, budding and ripe,

composing prose as he passed by the window,

in the balls.

Published University of Michigan Portfolio, 2005