Emasculation

I’m submitting a poem to the Metropolitan Diary section of the New York Times today but I want to post it here first. It’s the first poem I have written since middle school (about age 10).

I have to admit that I wrote this poem to annoy my former housemate Lindsay, a real poet who is currently taking an MFA in poetry at the University of Maryland. It was my attempt to prove to her that all poetry was rubbish because I am a rubbish poet, and if I could write a poem then it would make a mockery of poetry in general. (I didn’t have very much to do in those days.)

Anyway, as rotten luck would have it I ended up giving birth to the following, which I have subsequently become rather fond of. It’s an outpouring of bile born of too many unemployed days spent shopping, cooking and waiting patiently in our Brooklyn apartment while my then-fiancee Sofie went out to work.

I could have called it Born of Frustration, but I ended up giving it the snappy little title:

Emasculation – A Meditation On Moving In
or
One Man’s Journey Into Rubber Gloves…

I shudder at these rubber gloves,
Their protection from the scalding water,
Scant consolation for their dirty, purple demeanor.
I fear they may clash with my eyes.

Just a few months ago, I had no notion
Of this unmarried bliss;
Shop, cook and clean for a kiss
And wait patiently for the return of my mistress.

My forte used to be scrambled eggs on toast,
Now it’s waiting for that call or the post
And a chance just to boast to friends
That I struck gold on the East Coast.

This is the second time that I’ve washed this pan.
But no matter how hard I try
I don’t think that I can ever scrub up to your standards.
Even though you keep lowering them.

For me, from now on, the measure of success
Shall be gauged by my culinary prowess,
The speed I can iron your knickers and dress, and yes,
Occasionally turning tricks in the bedroom.

My former life of financial independence
Fades into a washing-up-foam-shrouded fantasy;
Abandoned in a Cornish coastal town
Under damp, dirty cliffs
And drowned by the cries of one thousand seagulls.

My testosterone has admitted defeat.
The metamorphosis is complete,
As I hunt and gather in the shops,
Wondering what will you eat?
And have you given me enough money to pay for it?

I should have heeded the warnings,
But I was too love struck to think.
You begin by sinking into her arms
And end up with your arms in her sink.

Thanks Lindsay
Paul