Of Webs and Whispers
I. The Myopic Eye
—a pantoum
A spider spinning scripture for the flies—
It thrives on every speck and faintest stain.
Its keyhole squint is where its wisdom lies.
It threads its venom through the heart and brain.
It thrives on every speck and faintest stain.
It scorns the mote that mars the spotless view.
It threads its venom through the heart and brain
And gilds its beam in Heaven’s holy hue.
It scorns the mote that mars the spotless view
While gazing in the mirror at a saint.
It gilds its beam in Heaven’s holy hue
And pierces purity without restraint.
It gazes in the mirror at a saint
And feasts upon the spectacle it sees.
It pierces purity without restraint
And weaves a sticky web of certainties.
It feasts upon the spectacle it sees.
Its keyhole squint is where its wisdom lies.
It weaves a sticky web of certainties—
A spider spinning scripture for the flies.
II. Loose Lips
—a triolet
A secret slipped from lips too lax to know
The sting its salty whisperings would bring
To grapevine groves where juicy rumors flow.
A secret slipped from lips too lax to know
This caustic spill would coax a grudge to grow
Hell-hot enough to scorch an angel’s wing.
A secret slipped from lips too lax to know
The sting its salty whisperings would bring.
III. The Eavesdroppers
—a pantoum
These thieves of the unguarded, half-heard claim,
These larcenists of lingo stripped of gist,
Torment the truth till truth forgets its name.
They tickle wits with every lilt and twist.
These larcenists of lingo stripped of gist,
They live to lure the gossip-greedy ear.
They tickle wits with every lilt and twist
And titillate the grapevine’s loose-lipped sphere.
They live to lure the gossip-greedy ear.
They pass their pilfered piffle off as news.
They titillate the grapevine’s loose-lipped sphere
And feed myopic eyes with crooked views.
They pass their pilfered piffle off as news,
These surreptitious traffickers of lies.
They feed myopic eyes with crooked views.
They hex the feather-heads and vex the wise.
These surreptitious traffickers of lies
Torment the truth till truth forgets its name.
They hex the feather-heads and vex the wise,
These thieves of the unguarded, half-heard claim.
Susan Jarvis Bryant is a poet originally from the U.K., now living on the Gulf Coast of Texas.
The pantoum seems an apt vehicle for your spidery reflections, with its repeated, interlocking rhymes. What you do is “weave,” come to think of it. The poem is amusing, yes, but creepy, too, inasmuch as a spider isn’t anybody’s idea of a cuddly creature, and its actual motives are not exactly benign, the beauty of its web notwithstanding. Close acquaintance with this decidedly unreligious creature is likely to give us a shiver. I notice once again the importance of sound in your poetry, with its variety, richness, and color. I hear, it seems, the sheer delight in language expertly put together.
In “Loose Lips” you give us an unsparing and justified view of thoughtless gossip, a vice not often enough condemned. It can cause a grudge, as you say, “Hell-hot enough to scorch an angel’s wing.” What a fine phrase.
“The Eavesdroppers” is another well-aimed denunciation, accomplished, I notice, largely with short words which deliver pungency with a punch.
These poems are a pleasure to read.
‘keyhole squinting’ – ‘lax lips’, and ‘larceny of lingo’ – each an unambiguous indictment of ‘Vanity’ and ‘Gossip’, and each in a piece exorbitantly endowed with your impressive style of poetessing, were an absolute pleasure to decipher. No need to encourage you to ‘keep up the good work’ – is there, Susie? 🙂
To consider only the first of these three stunning poems, I’m haunted by “It gazes in the mirror at a saint”, and the possibility that “it” might be either a saint or merely a spectator. And a pantoum, with its hypnotic recurrences, is the perfect vehicle for eerie spidery reflection. But leaving detail aside, it would take me months of self-critique and endless polishing to get anywhere near even one of these pieces. I’m continually astonished by the apparent ease with which you spin your verbal webs, one after another, year in year out. Thanks Susan.
Another fabulous iteration feasting on alliteration!
“A spider spinning scripture for the flies” is an extremely striking line, because it holds a complete metaphor. And that metaphor is held onto throughout the rest of the poem: “Heaven’s holy view, mirror at a saint, web of certainties.” Everything here suggests a religionist attitude that works to poison, stifle, and kill others by means of biblically sanctioned imperatives.
The second poem reminds me of the old warning from World War II: “A slip of the lip can sink a ship.” This was said to urge workers in the war industries to keep their mouths shut about any military facts they might have learned on the job. It also brings to mind an old Sicilian expression: “Sta zittu… ‘un dici nenti” (Be quiet… don’t say anything). In college we Italian students would say that to each other when we didn’t want the Irish guys to know something.
“The Eavesdroppers” is a spirited attack on a wide range of types: gossipers, propagandists, managed-news mainstream media flacks, lying journalists, social-media influencers, government bureaucrats, or anyone else who doesn’t want the rest of us to know something. It could be read as a complaint about private life, but also about the larger sociopolitical scene.
A big THANK YOU! to Bhikkhu, Mark, Martin, Roy, and Joe for your wonderful and encouraging comments. Your interpretations, insight, and appreciation of my poetry are received with much gratitude. The poetry and the comments of those visiting my pages have inspired and spurred me on for seven years at this site, and I could not be more grateful.
Susan after my first reading of your poems I blurted out “Associated Press! lol. They read well aloud. The insistent recurrences that the pantoum provides is a thread that links the separate themes of all three poems.
The other thought that hit me was the communist instruction: How to start a rumor. In the days when the media was 100 percent one sided many decent leaders lost their reputations with that tactic.
Before I started reading yours, I saw the repetitions of pantoums, triolets, and villanelles as tedious and archaic. Now I want to write one. If one day I do, I’ll have you to thank.
Abuses of language like “A spider spinning scripture” in order to kill; loose, gossiping “grapevine” lips; and eavesdroppers making truth forget its name — all coming from the pen of a poet who uses language so carefully and respectfully, using alliteration, lovely rhymes, and apt metaphors — make for a beautiful irony.
Of Webs and Whispers is the perfect title for these three wonderful creations. So enjoyable to read and containing worthy messages. Thank you Susan. You are astonishingly creative.
Susan, these three poems are masterfully woven together under the marvelously apt title Of Webs and Whispers (as has already been pointed out). I can’t help but feel you MUST have been thinking of Matthew 7:3-5 when you wrote The Myopic Eye. Scorning the mote while gazing in the mirror at a saint and gilding the beam in Heaven’s holy hue… Your way of retelling this passage is like a bold font that makes the message hard to trivialize or ignore!
Susan, your spinning together of references to politics, society, state of the world, etc. brings to mind a phrase by Charles Dickens: “terrestrial scheme”
The triolet and second pantoum demonstrate your delicious use of alliteration, which gives an almost tactile quality to the ideas you express, especially in the triolet. You show us how sound affects the impression of the poem, and why the art is more auditory than visual.
Beyond technical details, the poems are classic SJB: spiky and vitriolic in the most delightful way, calling out human vices in all their ugliness.
More magic Susan – “They pass their pilfered piffle off as news.” could almost be from Anglo-Saxon verse, wonderfully alliterative and expressive. I keep thinking when I read your work that it is ideal for teaching – teaching how to write real poetry, the tropes, the forms, the techniques etc. And it is a source of deep regret that real poetry is no longer taught – except exceptionally – or appreciated; instead formless solipsism stuffed with memes is now considered art. However, let’s press on …