Feed

Recipe For REVOLT: Anne Carson, poet.

photo by Terry Byrnes

 In anticipation of REVOLT. SHE SAID. REVOLT AGAIN., Soho Rep. asked playwright Alice Birch about art pieces that inspired her play. Alice came back to us with a formidable list of plays, photography, feminist essays, and poetry that have all been an influence on this piece of writing.

In a series we are calling “Recipes for REVOLT”, we will be delving a bit deeper into these art pieces to give you a sense of where this extraordinary play sprung.

“Anne Carson has gained both critical accolades and a wide readership over the course of her “unclassifiable” publishing career. In addition to her many highly-regarded translations of classical writers such as Sappho and Euripides, and her triptych rendering of An Oresteia (2009), Carson has published poems, essays, libretti, prose criticism and verse novels that often cross genres. Known for her supreme erudition… Carson’s poetry can also be heart-breaking and she regularly writes on love, desire, sexual longing and despair.” (Source: The Poetry Foundation)

Here is Anne Carson’s “Three”, a poem that has arresting images throughout that echo our production.

THREE
by Anne Carson
Three silent women at the kitchen table.
My mother’s kitchen is dark and small but out the window
there is the moor, paralyzed with ice.
It extends as far as the eye can see

 

over flat miles to a solid unlit white sky.
Mother and I are chewing lettuce carefully.
The kitchen wall clock emits a ragged low buzz that jumps

 

once a minute over the twelve.
I have Emily p. 216 propped open on the sugarbowl
but am covertly watching my mother.

 

A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.
My mother is studying her lettuce.
I turn to p. 217.

 

“In my flight through the kitchen I knocked over Hareton
who was hanging a litter of puppies
from a chairback in the doorway. . . .”

 

It is as if we have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
Now and then a remark trails through the glass.
Taxes on the back lot. Not a good melon,

 

too early for melons.
Hairdresser in town found God, closes shop every Tuesday.
Mice in the teatowel drawer again.
Little pellets. Chew off

 

the corners of the napkins, if they knew
what paper napkins cost nowadays.
Rain tonight.

 

Rain tomorrow.
That volcano in the Philippines at it again. What’s her name
Anderson died no not Shirley

 

the opera singer. Negress.
Cancer.
Not eating your garnish, you don’t like pimento?

 

Out the window I can see dead leaves ticking over the flatland
and dregs of snow scarred by pine filth.
At the middle of the moor

 

where the ground goes down into a depression,
the ice has begun to unclench.
Black open water comes

 

curdling up like anger. My mother speaks suddenly.
That psychotherapy’s not doing you much good is it?
You aren’t getting over him.

 

My mother has a way of summing things up.
She never liked Law much
but she liked the idea of me having a man and getting on with life.

 

Well he’s a taker and you’re a giver I hope it works out,
was all she said after she met him.
Give and take were just words to me

 

at the time. I had not been in love before.
It was like a wheel rolling downhill.
But early this morning while mother slept

 

and I was downstairs reading the part in Wuthering Heights
where Heathcliff clings at the lattice in the storm sobbing
Come in! Come in! to the ghost of his heart’s darling,

 

I fell on my knees on the rug and sobbed too.
She knows how to hang puppies,
that Emily.

 

It isn’t like taking an aspirin you know, I answer feebly.
Dr. Haw says grief is a long process.
She frowns. What does it accomplish

 

all that raking up the past?
Oh—I spread my hands—
I prevail! I look her in the eye.
She grins. Yes you do.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *