On Michelle Williams' Female and two poems

Variations on Michelle William's book, Female


There are several stages in the revelation of a writer to the world. The first is perhaps the revelation of writing to the writer, an uncanny moment when one realises there is something more than just speech and thought, there is another voice, a flow of something deeper than both thought and speech, something primordial and yet simultaneously artificial, a river that pours itself out in ink. Words come and create another body. I hid my voice for years and many friends and family are still unaware of my silent vocation to write. Having such a vocation as mother and wife is probably even harder. Every moment of every day is full with tasks to perform. Where and when does time leave us the moments to speak this secret voice? Such is the predicament of poetess, Michelle Williams, outlined in subtle, whispering tones in her first tome of poems, Female.

These are some of the sincerest musings I have read in a long time and I listen to them in tranquil rapture as they induce me to think. They bear their fragility with pride. They recognise obstacles and the contours of failure. Williams writes: "she remains/ scarred for wanting/ that which she carries/ empty with understanding…" Or: " for it is/ the ancestry of my gender/ the sacred burden of my sex/ to be/ the core of strength within/ each weakness/ perceived/ to always equal the greater sum/ of my circumstances…" The peaceful reflections here belie the hurt and the battles which must have preceded their writing. There are scars here which have been overcome. The serenity with which the poetess writes is wonderful and much of the writing's beauty resides in the joy of writing itself, the pleasures inherent in the activity of poetic practise. There is a longing and a pining in a poem which lives and breathes within that poem. The senses are contained there. The beauty of this singer's voice is such that complications and excessive ornamentalism are not prerequisite. "i have held the keepsake of mo(u)rning/ in a reverence meant for lockets/ and solitary breaths"

Of course, she is already elsewhere. She has been for many years. But the paths poets embark upon have aleatory beginnings. The important thing is to begin. Somewhere, to don a mask, to speak these words:

"i held you there
in moments of eyes
you filled my palm
with the willingness
of your empty
and how the clasping
remains"


From my sojourn with Female, came the following two poems:


one


in the trinity
of wife of mother of woman

much of what falls
will fall on you

you who in arias of silence
write the future

it will fall
as you grasp the moment
which must not fall
as all around it fractures

you must not fall
in the fall
but rise
between midday and midnight

with the poem


two

you write your portrait
in secret text

it is dangerous to be understood
unwise to open to the sun

what protection we have
is our poetry to listen to

what you call vocality

we have it
we keep it
we travel with it
to unknown destination
on paths at dusk

where whispering sings