Dear pink genital, you alone oblige me.
no one writes. This hand is tired,
I tell the sky. Where is the fleet, where
the horizon? I can hardly lift my
to see the small, sand-colored shapes
waving from their buggies like maggots.
It's a picture from childhood,
that faraway, that sweet.
Dear old friend, all this time it was you
calling my name in strange places.
Dear physic, I'm sicker than you are strong.
Bring word to your brothers and sisters:
the villagers are hostile
and inside me.
Somewhere in the distance there's fire.
Your green Arcadian hills do not
The bird-bright eyes of every bird cared for,
the way it is promised, the way it is written,
fat on their share of sun and seed.
But I don't see you
in the dark streak of a cat
crossing the street or the regal skunk in summer's heat
that strolls the sidewalk after
dark, stopping to look at me
before moving on to its home under a neighbor's porch,
pushing its black-white weight
through the latticework.
I don't see you in a head of
and wet at the grocery store, singing in Orphic dissonance.
I look at your trees and see the
night my mind rose up
and left the body's bed, the skin of the moon
in your teeth.
I begged you to make the mule of my mind
come back. Do you remember what you said?
Nothing. And in the
silence after that--
my head without my body, singing on the riverbed.
The Nihilist Takes a Bow
A rigged coin toss concludes.
Nero plays a happy tune
on his portable radio.
He keeps winking at me
from his wicker wheelchair, pointing to his lap.
Someone takes my photograph
from behind a potted plant
puts it on the Internet. Is this my fantasy?
It's so small and cross-eyed.
I press my face into the Astroturf.
The stage is strewn with my body.
From miles away I can still see
you--crowned and bloated, consulting a mirror
on the status of the future
of your hairline.
the Autopsy of Vaslav Nijinsky, selected by Guest Editor Phillip B. Williams
Bridget Lowe is the
author of At the Autopsy of Vaslav Nijinsky (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2013). In a 2011 interview
with The Collagist, Lowe expressed her interest in figures “who are rejected by the same social groups
for which they’re expected to perform.” Her poetry is accordingly concerned with those who feel they are both
looked at and invisible, who are exploited yet remain deeply unknown. She is the recipient of a "Discovery”/Boston
Review prize and received the 2011 Rona Jaffe Foundation Fellowship to attend the MacDowell Colony, and has
been a scholar and a fellow at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. Since 2009, Lowe’s poems have appeared in American
Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Best American Poetry 2011, Boston Review, The New Republic, and Parnassus, among
other publications. She is a graduate of Syracuse University’s MFA Program and Beloit College, and currently lives
in Kansas City, Missouri, where she was born.
A Review of Bridget Lowe's At the Autopsy
of Vaslav Nijinsky by Lucy Biederman, first published at Kenyon Review
Remember when Betty Draper shot at the neighbor’s
birds, in the first season of Mad Men? With her cigarette hanging out of her mouth, in her gauzy nightgown, she
looked so maternal and sexual. She was horrible, glorious, and bored. The episode ended to the music of her rifle shots,
then a golden oldie started playing, the credits rolled, and of course no one, not Don or anyone else, ever mentioned
That scene takes place in the same neighborhood
as Bridget Lowe’s poems. This neighborhood is far from the major, clearly marked thoroughfares of what Yeats called
“passionate intensity,” and it is in neighborhoods like these, knotty and off-map, where, I imagine, most of
us spend most of our days.
Lying awake after I first read At the Autopsy of Vaslav Nijinksy, I kept hearing the poems in my mind’s
ear, gross and pretty and weird. Lowe has zero interest in weirdness for the sake of weirdness, but there is some weird
shit in here: “God is a mathematician and in my dreams / I’m held down while my head is wrapped in netting /
and strangers lick between my legs and laugh”; water trickling out of the “stony baby dick” of the cherub
in the fountain at the mall.
Vaslav Nijinksy is Lowe’s first book, but the authority she asserts as the driver of these poems
is a fearful thing, all the more so for all the disguises it wears. Here, for example, are the final lines of the poem
I tear my garment in my
heat, in my love, O, Lord, your name is like a bird
in me, your name is like
a bird which imitates
but does not truly speak.
In the space of these four lines, Lowe builds
a monument to a Lord whose very existence she then tears apart, leaving imitation—less than nothing—in its
wake. Susan Sontag once said it was the easiest thing in the world for her to pay attention; if anything, she said, she
had “Attention Surplus Disorder.” Lowe is in no danger of such diagnosis. In the lines above, she extinguishes
the flame of her own rapture so economically that not even the smell of smoke remains. Many of the poems in this volume
do like “Prayer” and jolt you awake from the very spells they cast, continually and insistently refusing a too-easy
sense of beauty and wonder.
Like Plath, Lowe has a mind that seeks and finds the chink in the china, the white lie in the master narrative.
And so the book’s animating, recurring myths and characters—the wild boy of Aveyron, the pilgrim, the forgotten
actress—retain a certain unlikelihood, as if Lowe herself does not believe in them as anything other than poem-making
devices. Even the Internet, which holds our eyes steady all day, seems boring in Lowe’s poems:
Someone takes my photograph
from behind a potted plant
and puts it on the Internet. Is this my fantasy?
It’s so small and cross-eyed,
writes in “The Nihilist Takes a Bow.” This is not the Internet of brand-new lit journals and YouTube, with all
its glittery possibilities for fame and its endless new items of interest. The Internet seems, instead, as “small
and cross-eyed” as the speaker’s fantasy, just another mild wind extinguishing Lowe’s rapture.
condition of girl- and womanhood is a fatal one—and mortality and fatalism are never far from the minds and voices
of Lowe’s female speakers. They efface themselves almost literally, dressing up in confidence and, like the forgotten
actress, smiling through a shame they find slightly delightful. “She could fashion a noose from a hair bow,”
Lowe writes in “State Line.” The poem titled “Whatever You Thought Your Body to Be” implies, but
never quite says, you were wrong. The body, like a lover, is untrustworthy: “see it out walking, forgetting
your name.” “Eat Not the Heart, Neither the Brain” ends with the lines,
But listen to me when I tell you
the soul is best avoided.
Or don’t. Who am I
to warn you of what you’ll suffer.
poem offers an operatic conclusion, and then an equally dramatic reversal of that conclusion that undermines the authority
of the speaker who has taught us to trust her—or does it? “Who am I,” the speaker asks, but the lack
of question mark at the end of the sentence might be the real story. Under the banner of that seeming self-effacement, the
speaker asserts and withholds her knowledge “of what you’ll suffer,” leaving it to hang like a knife.
psychic space in which the speakers in these poems consider their relationships—and the intricate, surprising sounds
with which Lowe portrays those considerations—refuse to give up their mystery. The first poem in the book, “Poem
for Virginia as Joan of Arc,” is one of the book’s most phonically and lyrically enthralling, every line like
a shot arrow (or maybe one of Betty Draper’s rifle shots). Here is part of it:
Alone you stood and flickered in the
alone you stood on stage.
The dog stepped
the television throbbed
comfort, beacon for your bed-boat.
In the basement your father’s waders
Hung on a hook, and, even out of water,
Held the shape of a man
You held the shape of a windowpane,
And what sights it showed you, things it demanded!
is most easily readable here, familiarly suburban, only drives the strangeness deeper. The first couplet, for example,
clearly presents a pair of places in which the poem’s starring “you” has stood alone. But even in the
inverted syntax of “alone you stood,” Lowe begins to unmoor us; and by the end of that line, as the subject
of the poem “flickered in the kitchen,” she has called into question where—in what world—this
poem takes place. The vectors of slant rhyme and alliteration within and across nearly every line, beginning with flickered/kitchen,
suggest a secret meaning, some code or form imbedded but unknown. There is a horribly fathomless Something, an X, running
through the center of the book. That Something runs not against the grain of Lowe’s extreme precision of
language, but through it.
Layers of reality and illusion swarm around each other in Vaslav Nijinksy, but where other poets might
slip out the back door during the confusion, Lowe locates moral centers and beating hearts. In “The Forgotten Actress
as Contestant on Dancing With the Stars,” Lowe uses waltzing tercets to depict the actress’s “sublime”
experience performing in front of an audience and judges. The final lines unsettle each other, one after the other. The
judges deliver a low score and “Cruelty came / like a surreal joke. The audience cheered / for more. You liked it.”
The great surprise here is not the low score, not the “surreal joke” of the audience’s excitement at the
actress’s failure, but, in a jolt that is all the more jarring for its complexity, that the actress “liked
it.” “It” meaning the whole shebang—the dancing, the cruelty, the joke of it all, the audience celebrating
her failure, the spectacle. Lowe’s expertly controlled language conveys the emotional perversion of this scene;
the actress didn’t love it, which might suggest an ability to subvert or control the role she’d been
given. The poem doesn’t even give her that. She merely liked it. There is bravery in Lowe’s focus on emotions
besides love and hate, in the rigor and ruthlessness with which she describes, instead, disappointment, disgust, humiliation,
and mild surprise (“eating a candy bar while staring at the moon”). We waste our days on those feelings, too.
of the poems in the book take place in settings that recalls those of poets like Lucie Brock-Broido and Karen Volkman,
whom Stephen Burt has categorized as elliptical. Lowe uses phonic invention and association to create an otherworldly,
romantic effect. For example, here is the first stanza of “Leitmotif”:
I was devoted, I sat at your feet.
I called a photograph of a telephone
twenty times a day asking for you, for you, for you.
space of this poem, Lowe, as Broido and Volkman tend to do in their poems, creates an airtight dreamscape in which pure
devotion is possible. Instead of a telephone, there is “a photograph of a telephone.” Only at such a far distance
from the recognizable social world can one devote oneself like a saint. Calling someone twenty times a day in real life
is creepy; in the hothouse world of this poem, it is a symbol of devotion, and devotion is love. But the poem has a hard
core of emotional resonance—responsibility, even. “Leitmotif” ends with the lines,
When I awoke, I met a statue with
It was as if no time had passed at all.
I bowed. I began
a polite conversation about weather.
The lush romanticism of the poem’s first stanza (for
you, for you, for you) contrasts with the ascetic simplicity of its final moments, particularly that quotidian final
line. In these last lines, Lowe vanishes the dreamscape she has built. In the world of awkward humans, “a polite
conversation about weather” disappointingly, tragically, replaces the beautifully desperate adoration in which the
speaker, and the reader, too, had indulged.
Lowe is a magician in reverse—no, not quite that: she is an anti-magician.
Instead of sawing the woman in half at the end of the show, Lowe shows the audience the secret panel. In the title poem,
an undefined “they” look for some explanation in the great dancer’s feet for his extraordinary abilities.
They “searched inside the gristle / for a machine, / a motor and spring, the wheel,” but find, of course, a
regular foot. As the poet at the autopsy, it is Lowe’s
self-appointed task to say out loud that there is no magic in that foot. The poems in this book impart that terrible knowledge.
They go deep, beyond the beauty and the ugliness, as T.S. Eliot instructs, to “the boredom, and the horror, and the
Click here to
read an interview with Bridget Lowe at 32 Poems
________________________________________________________________________________________Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interview
An Interview with Bridget Lowe by
Peter Mishlet, first published at Parnassus: Poetry in Review
Peter Mishler: In your first collection of poems At the Autopsy of Valsav Nijinsky you
write from the perspective of a number of public figures. How did you choose these subjects?
Bridget Lowe: I honestly don’t
feel like I did choose these subjects. It always seems to happen naturally for me. It was at the thrift store where I
found the case study called The Wild Boy of Aveyron, and at a yard sale where I found the diaries of Nijinsky.
I have been going to the thrift store my whole life, and I am a big believer in its powers to deliver me what I need.
And even after finding the books, I didn’t think of how I could use them exactly. I just became a bit obsessed with
each book and wrote in response to what I was reading. But once it becomes clear to me that I am writing a lot about a
particular person, I do make the conscious choice to try to maintain a balance of just enough information with not enough
information. I don’t want to quantify these figures––I want to understand them. I don’t believe
information always leads to knowing. And I think because it is me writing and not them, the poems are more about me than
them. I don’t think I could deny that, even if I’ve wanted to sometimes.
PM: What voices or experiences are you drawn to in your reading?
BL: I’m drawn to voices
that feel authentic and idiosyncratic, some of my favorite writers being Montaigne, Girolamo Cardano, and Sir Thomas Browne.
I’m attracted to the voices of those who insist on their humanness, sometimes in spite of people or forces around
them trying to deny them that. I love reading firsthand accounts of saints, people who have come close to or encountered
the ecstatic and want to describe it to you, as an individual reader—I love being directly addressed on the page.
On the other hand, I love the clinical text or voice, the doctor’s assessment. I am drawn to both the subject of assessment
as well the assessor, which I think is clear when reading the book.
Something else that comes to mind is a song I
remember my dad singing when I was growing up called ‘Danny Farrell.’ The song is a catalogue of this particular
man’s failings, a portrait of an alcoholic and all the damage he’s done. But the chorus of the song, after going
through all of his failures, concludes with ‘but Danny Farrell, he’s a man.’ I think the book is concerned
with similar questions about what makes someone a person and not something else. And I’m interested in these questions
because I don’t know what that something is; no one does. I’m also aware of how naïve this sounds—but
I’m stuck on it and so tend to read accordingly.
PM: In your poem ‘Antoine-Laurent
Lavoisier and Wife, Posing with Scientific Instruments Just Before He is Beheaded,’ you write from the perspective
of Lavoisier’s wife. Why did you choose to write about her?
BL: I didn’t begin the poem with a particular interest in her, actually; I was drawn to
her through reading about her husband’s work on oxygen in the blood. The book, which was part of a set of vintage
reference books on the human body, illustrated Lavoisier’s work with the painting by Jacques-Louis David that’s
in the Met, ‘Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier and His Wife.’ They look very happy together, very unified. in a mutual
tenderness and creativity. She is sort of flanking him from behind and he looks pensive and distracted. But the moment
portrays, to me, a genuine intimacy between them. I was drawn most of all to this intimacy. This poem is a love poem,
plain and simple. I wondered, what if all of his work was really just to impress her, or for her in some way? In that
‘schoolyard love’ sense.
book includes several poems in which you return to specific subjects (Nijinsky the Wild Boy, The Pilgrim, Sean Young).
Do you see this poem as part of a series that a reader can follow throughout the collection?
BL: Yes and no. While, yes, there are several figures in the book who recur, Lavoisier and his
wife only appear in this single poem, so in that sense this poem isn’t part of a series. But the book works as a
collection of ideas, and I see this poem as belonging to a series in that sense. To be specific, as I was working on the
poem, I read that Lavoisier’s wife [Marie-Anne-Pierrette Paulze] is believed to have been his pupil, and it’s
known that she assisted him quite a bit in his research and illustrated his work. So I was curious about what kind of
power she had, the same way I wonder about the Wild Boy living a life in which he was a constant pupil and patient. They
both fit into a model based on one’s assumed wholeness and the other’s lack, and there’s just so much
potential indignity in that. At the same time, Mme. Lavoisier and the Wild Boy, while both of the same period, had remarkably
different amounts of agency in their respective relationships, so they can’t be just lumped together.
PM: I notice that your poems seem to create
new, imaginative spaces for the subjects you are writing about. For instance, in ‘Proof,’ Pythagoras has had
multiple reincarnations, and your poem ‘Achilles and Penthesilea’ includes Penthesilea’s afterlife.
BL: In each of these poems the mind and the body
are completely separated. It’s both a horrific thought and a pleasant fantasy, that the mind could survive without
the body and vice versa. This is a dilemma that all of the poems in the collection are engaging in some way, some more
obviously than others. But Penthesilea, for example: her body is being defiled in the most grotesque way, but her mind
is not only somewhere else but in her childhood specifically, where a particular sense of power is restored to her. I
think people in psychic pain naturally dream of other worlds, one of my favorite examples of this being The Land of Cockaigne––the
fantasy of being filled, completely and totally sated. I’ve always been interested in the people that get pushed
to the margins, and I think the role that imagination plays in the lives of the marginalized is one of necessity, as if
they would die without it. When I write a poem for or about someone, which is what I’m usually doing when I write,
I am trying to give that person a new space to exist in, as a gift. I want to bring them some comfort for a minute, offer
them a little cloud to sit on before things get hard again.
And it seems to me now, seeing the book
completed, that the people I write about are often trying to figure out why they feel so far away from their own bodies.
But Pythagoras, in ‘Proof,’ he’s just going with it. He’s been living in so many different bodies
and forms that he’s comfortable with a kind of disconnection that the people of the period he’s visiting are
not. I would also identify him as pure imagination in this poem, a space both inside and outside of the world. He’s
very happy too. I imagine him as sort of settled with life, like the kind of older man you occasionally meet who has just
decided to always have a good time.
began this interview by stating that the subjects you’ve chosen have allowed for an entrance into personal expression,
that a poem that begins with a particular subject becomes more about you. In what ways do you think these poems
BL: I like that you
say the subjects I’ve chosen have ‘allowed for an entrance into personal expression.’ I definitely prefer
to think of it that way, but this is very tricky, and I struggled with this quite a bit, because I recognized that writing
on behalf of others, about their experience, was very problematic. The appropriation of the weak by the powerful for their
own gain is something I was dwelling critically on throughout the book, and I wondered how using someone as the subject
of a poem was different from making someone the subject of a scientific experiment, such as the Wild Boy. I didn’t
see how I could write in the voice of someone else or even use a real person as a catalyst without enacting the very thing
I’m mourning in the poems.
But while working
on the Wild Boy poems, I ended up writing a series from the point of view of Dr. Jean-Marc Gaspard Itard, the doctor who
wrote the case study I was using as a guide. Only one of these poems ended up in the book (‘The Doctor, Drunk, Gives
the Wild Boy of Aveyron Advice on Women and Sex’) but that was a surprising time for me. Up to that point I had
been thinking in terms of the emotional experience of the Wild Boy—the patient, the subject, who I easily felt a tenderness
toward that I could access on the page. But I found that I really liked writing from the point of view of the doctor as
well—he embodied a belief system that deeply frightened me, especially because of his good intentions and his tenderness
toward his subject. I think that was a necessary element to making the poems appropriately complicated. And I do believe
that I write partially in order to try to integrate things that frighten me into my conception of the world, to fit it all
together in one space.
These poems are also incredibly personal in the sense that I have always used poems to better understand what
I believe, and I don’t mean that in a self-help kind of way. I don’t care about understanding myself nearly
as much as I care about understanding how my ‘self’ has been formed by the environment or culture in which I
exist. That’s the same concern I express in regards to the Wild Boy, or Nijinsky, or my loved ones for that matter.
We believe our ideas are personal to us but mostly they’re not. It makes me sad because it was a belief that used
to bring me comfort as a younger person, that all of my ideas were mine and mine alone. I thought of my ideas as my soul,
and the imagination as a refuge, as a pure place, but I don’t believe that anymore. Because our very fantasy lives
belong to the storylines we consume, in my poems I have probably tried to depart from some of those storylines, to see
if there was a place beyond or outside of the narratives we’re offered. I think there is, I really do.
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interview