Poetry

“Saying Your Names” by Richard Siken.

Chemical names, bird names, names of fire
and flight and snow, baby names, paint names,
delicate names like bones in the body,
Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing,
names that no one’s ever able to figure out.
Names of spells and names of hexes, names
cursed quietly under the breath, or called out
loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again,
calling you home. Nicknames and pet names
and baroque French monikers, written in
shorthand, written in longhand, scrawled
illegibly in brown ink on the backs of yellowing
photographs, or embossed on envelopes lined
with gold. Names called out across the water,
names I called you behind your back,
sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable,
the names of flowers that open only once,
shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops,
or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep,
or caught in the throat like a lump of meat.
I try, I do. I try and try. A happy ending?
Sure enough— Hello darling, welcome home.
I’ll call you darling, hold you tight. We are
not traitors but the lights go out. It’s dark.
Sweetheart, is that you? There are no tears,
no pictures of him squarely. A seaside framed
in glass, and boats, those little boats with
sails aflutter, shining lights upon the water,
lights that splinter when they hit the pier.
His voice on tape, his name on the envelope,
the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge
behind you, the body hardly even makes
a sound. The waters of the dead, a clear road,
every lover in the form of stars, the road
blocked. All night I stretched my arms across
him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing
with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe.
Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be
like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed
to pieces.
 Makes a cathedral, him pressing against
me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe
his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me
like stars. Names of heat and names of light,
names of collision in the dark, on the side of the
bus, in the bark of the tree, in ballpoint pen
on jeans and hands and the backs of matchbooks
that then get lost. Names like pain cries, names
like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented,
names forbidden or overused. Your name like
a song I sing to myself, your name like a box
where I keep my love, your name like a nest
in the tree of love, your name like a boat in the
sea of love—O now we’re in the sea of love!
Your name like detergent in the washing machine.
Your name like two X’s like punched-in eyes,
like a drunk cartoon passed out in the gutter,
your name with two X’s to mark the spots,
to hold the place, to keep the treasure from
becoming ever lost. I’m saying your name
in the grocery store, I’m saying your name on
the bridge at dawn. Your name like an animal
covered with frost, your name like a music that’s
been transposed, a suit of fur, a coat of mud,
a kick in the pants, a lungful of glass, the sails
in wind and the slap of waves on the hull
of a boat that’s sinking to the sound of mermaids
singing songs of love, and the tug of a simple
profound sadness when it sounds so far away.
Here is a map with your name for a capital,
here is an arrow to prove a point: we laugh,
and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts
turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire.
I came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water, we’ll
swim like something sparkling underneath
the waves. Our bodies shivering, and the sound
of our breathing, and the shore so far away.
I’ll use my body like a ladder, climbing
to the thing behind it, saying farewell to flesh,
farewell to everything caught underfoot
and flattened. Names of poisons, names of
handguns, names of places we’ve been
together, names of people we’d be together.
Names of endurance, names of devotion,
street names and place names and all the names
of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.
It’s a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.
If there was one thing I could save from the fire,
he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,
the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard—
your breath on my neck like a music that holds
my hands down, kisses as they burn their way
along my spine—or rain, our bodies wet,
clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging
nipple to groin—I’ll be right here. I’m waiting.

Say hallelujah, say goodnight, say it over
the canned music and your feet won’t stumble,
his face getting larger, the rest blurring
on every side. And angels, about twelve angels,
angels knocking on your head right now, hello
hello, a flash in the sky, would you like to
meet him there, in Heaven? Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

3 thoughts on ““Saying Your Names” by Richard Siken.

  1. Someone once ran a minor poetry contest in which the object was to emulate the writing of Richard Siken. As I recall there was only one entry to the contest – mine! – so it was called off.

    Siken is a poet I admire very much. Not sure whether I actually like his work, as it makes me uneasy; however, I believe that is (sometimes) a deliberate effect. I love tricks of language like this, though: ‘…the river rises like a barn on fire’, a simile using dissimilarity, just one way that Siken surprises. ‘… illuminated cities at the center of me…’ a phrase the deliberate awkwardness of which makes me sit up. Much seems haphazard in this poem but in fact it is beautifully controlled.

    Thank you for posting it just in time for me to enjoy with my breakfast.

    M
    __________
    Marie Marshall
    author/poet/editor
    Scotland

  2. Siken’s work it touch-and-go. I can go months without viewing his work, then suddenly I am overcome with a need to revisit it.

    I was just talking to my boyfriend about how I was in shambles trying to remember this one quote from “Crush” that I endlessly thought of when we first started dating, and how I finally remembered where it was from.

    Siken has a way of crawling into your heart and messing things up. Just like love.

    I’m glad you enjoyed it!

    – Marissa.

    1. I bought a copy of ‘Crush’ a couple of years ago and still have not finished reading it. I think that, as a poet myself, I often fight shy of reading poetry – particularly innovatory work – because I am afraid of its influence, afraid that I will start to mimic rather than to be original. Just lately, however, I have become aware of and have celebrated the fact that my poetry is high in intertextuality, and references quite naturally things which I have read and absorbed. Sometimes that intertextuality is deliberate, sometimes it’s just there subconsciously. Sometimes people have to jog my elbow to let me know, “Hey – you’re doing it again!” One thing that dogs me is that I am actually a pretty able parodist, which must mean that I have an understanding for the stuff I parody…

      Anyhow, the moral of this story is I start out talking about Richard Siken and end up talking about myself!

      M

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