ANNE SEXTON (1928-1974) in conversation with Stan Rogal
But
suicides have a special language.
Like
Carpenters they want to know which tools.
They
never ask why build.
— from:
Wanting to Die
It was the International Writers’ Festival at Harbourfront. I was invited to interview several of the participants, most notably (in my opinion), Anne Sexton. I wandered around the backstage area, poking my head into the various rooms as I went, taking in the busy/buzzy ambience — roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd, so on and so forth — until I reached the designated door. A note was taped with words printed in different coloured crayons, as if by a child, that read: Rats Live On No Evil Star, a favourite palindrome of Sexton’s. I knocked and a voice answered, don’t be shy, come in, it’s open. I wasn’t sure what to expect once I entered, and, I must admit, beyond the initial shock, she looked rather fine in her Riot Goth makeover. Her hair was cropped short and spiky and dyed purple with black tips. Her eyebrows and ears were pierced and decorated with safety pins. She sported a nose ring and a diamond stud in her lower black-lacquered lip. Her black tee-shirt featured: HER KIND: Balls to the Wall Tour, in silver lettering. She wore an array of woven leather or string or copper wrist bracelets. Her fingers were all ringed, either plain silver hoops or else skulls, gargoyles, swords. Her arms were inked with a myriad of images that bled up her neck, none of which I studied too carefully, perhaps wary of The Illustrated Man effect, the Ray Bradbury story where staring too hard and long at the tell-tale flesh can suck the onlooker into physically experiencing the terrifying reality of the painted scene, attacked by savage lions on the African veldt, and so on. Torn black pants and red-and-white checkered Vans. She sat relaxed on a couch, a glass of clear liquid in her hand, a bottle of Absolut vodka next to her cell phone on the coffee table in front of her.
I grabbed a folding chair and sat across, placing the recorder on the wood table top. She squinted at me and bit her lower lip. You’re from Rolling Stone? she asked, and shot me a wide, inviting smile. I shook my head, no. Rave? No. Airplay Action? No. Crack? No. Life? No. Vanity Fair? No. The smile diminished to a smirk. Hm, she grunted. I see. Mysterious. Okay. She pointed to the tape recorder. Then you must be the lie detector from the Anaïs Nin novel, A Spy in the House of Love. Fine, I’m good with that, she laughed. I have nothing to hide. Almost nothing, as a woman must keep some secrets or else she loses her charm, n’est-ce pas? She reached a hand for a cigarette pack beside her on the couch and stopped herself, twisting the pack gently into the cushion with her fingertips. But, of course, living in these more austere times, smoking is prohibited, isn’t it? Ist verboten. I have to sneak outside like a naughty schoolgirl to get my nicotine hit. Well. She sighed and swept her hand from the cigarette pack to the vodka bottle. Would you care for a drink? No law against that, yet. She poured a large shot into a waiting glass and pushed it toward me. I hate to drink alone, she said, but I will, so don’t worry yourself, never been a problem. I raised my glass and we drank a toast. To your success, I said. She stretched her face, blew through her lips and made la-la-la sounds with her tongue. Red leather, yellow leather, she repeated several times in succession. She pursed and smacked her lips, then paused. Go ahead with your questions, dear boy. Don’t mind me, just exercises I do before I go on stage. I nodded, fine, and proceeded.
SR: I suppose the big question is: what brings you back? To what do we owe the great pleasure and privilege of your presence here among us?
AS: Thank you for those kind words, even if a tad alliterative, as you’re now probably, painfully, pregnantly aware. (She popped her lips). I’m joking. It’s much appreciated, really. Well (she took a healthy slug from her glass), someone — I couldn’t tell you who, exactly, maybe communal, part of the zeitgeist, y’know — felt that the time was ripe to get the old band back together and do a big goddamn freaking road tour.
SR: The band being “Her Kind” I’m guessing. From a poem of yours by the same name.
AS: (She raised her free arm in the air and spoke melodramatically). “I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil”. (She clenched her fist, hesitated, laughed). Very spooky, yes?
SR: Yes. Nice. And, was there anything…specifically…that made it seem that this particular time period was right for you and the band?
AS: The news was, that confessional poetry was back in vogue, especially by poets who were mentally and/or physically fucked up and suffering horribly because of it.
SR: Mentally and/or physically “challenged” (I performed air quotes with my fingers), is the more acceptable term people tend to use these days.
AS: Put it in a party dress and call it whatever polite name you like, all I know is, if you’re the one living with it, you’re fucked up, big time. (She rocked her glass in the air and took another hit). At any rate, I knew that I could tick off several boxes (she accompanied each term with a finger check): bipolar disorder, manic depressive, hysteric, suffered from severe headaches and cramps, addicted to alcohol and prescription pills, abused by husband — though, I must admit, I abused him right back, poor man, I mean, I could give as well as I could take, y’know (she flashed her teeth at this, gritted, growled), I was no shrinking violet, ever — tick, tick, tick, tick… PLUS, I was suicidal. Let’s face it, I was as close to a basket case as you could imagine and still function. Or, as I liked to boast among friends — and others, depending on how much I had to drink, at parties and literary shindigs, y’ know — I aim to put the fun back in dysfunctional.
SR: Yes, you had a reputation for being very outspoken, as well as brutally frank.
AS: Part and parcel of being labeled a “confessional” poet, I guess. There are people who believe everything they read in my poems to be true, which can give rise to some serious misinterpretations and misunderstandings, which I might need to correct.
SR: Such as?
AS: That I was promiscuous, say, a slut, so, an easy lay for any drunk with a hackneyed come-on line and his dick nailed to his forehead. (She put the back of her hand to her brow and wiggled her index finger).
SR: Right. I seem to recall reading about a gathering you were at once, along with Erica Jong.
AS: Ha-ha, yes, that. Some cheeky young fellow tried to pick me up. He wouldn’t quit. Got quite insistent, almost belligerent. I finally looked him square between the eyes and told him to zip his fuck and stop pestering me or else I’d have him tossed out of the house on his sorry ass. That seemed to do it. He staggered off to a corner to pout. Erica overheard. She came over and said she’d love to use the remark I made in a book she was working on — zip your fuck — and would that be all right. I said, of course, yes, making use of second-hand found material is what we writers do best. We laughed and proceeded to get drunk together.
SR: It became the zipless fuck, in her novel Fear of Flying. Sex without strings; a sexual encounter for its own sake, without emotional involvement or commitment or any ulterior motive, between two previously unacquainted persons.
AS: Yes, the book came out the year before my untimely demise. I was happy for her. Happy to see my line used, even if slightly altered. Ha. (She turned her head to the side, pursed her lips, and stared off into space, as if recollecting something).
SR: What is it?
AS: I was just thinking, if I hadn’t been in such a foul mood that night, and if that guy hadn’t been such a little shit, I might’ve fucked him. (She shrugged and turned to look at me). Ah, well. His loss. (She raised her eyebrows impishly, poured herself another splash of vodka, and drank. She nodded toward my glass). You’re falling behind.
SR: I’m good, thanks. Your poetry is recognized, of course, for its confessional style, containing intimate details of your private life, but you also wrote openly about menstruation, abortion, masturbation, adultery, drug addiction, when these things were thought improper subjects for poetry.
AS: Yes, that’s true. I always had a desire, a need, really, to push the envelope in terms of theme and language, to roughen the line, y’know? For me, poetry should almost hurt.
SR: Conceptual poet, Vanessa Place, said, “I see art that’s sanitised, art that’s precious, art that’s playing safe, art for the market. People say they want transgression, that they’re looking for the radical edge, but I’m not so sure. There’s a certain amount of cruelty in what I do. There has to be. You have to touch nerves, otherwise it’s just entertainment.” Have you had an opportunity to read any of today’s poets, and how do you respond in relation to Place’s comment?
AS: I have read bits and pieces, and I would agree, as a general rule. Much, most of what I’ve read is egocentric whining; it’s all me, me, me. I mean, get over it; get over yourself. Shit happens. To everyone. You don’t have exclusive rights to grief and hardship. It’s what you do with it that counts. The “I” must be expansive; yes, some personal details can and must be included, but also fictionalized through the use of poetic techniques and tropes. The writing itself must remain the most important aspect. What I’ve read is mainly trite, sentimental and clichéd. The writing, the style, the presentation, if you will, must be at least as powerful as the theme or subject matter, otherwise it’s simple documentary. Worse: plain and clerical documentation. This then that then this then that, blah! And who needs an entire book of someone grieving over their dead mother, or the pain of childbirth, or being bullied as a teenager, or going through cancer treatment, or whatever? It’s like a broken record. After a while, the poems all sound the same. (She waved her glass and drank). You have a poet I recall (she pointed a finger at me), Susan Musgrave, who once said that a love affair is only good for two poems, one at the beginning and one at the end, that’s it, finito. I believe this rule should apply to all topics. I mean, if you want to cry in your beer all night, fine, go ahead, just don’t cry in mine, thankyouverymuch. Art isn’t therapy, it’s work. You want therapy, see a shrink.
SR: You were under care of a psychiatrist, yes?
AS: Two, in fact, the second of whom I fucked. We fucked. Totally improper behaviour and unprofessional, I know, but, as it’s a matter of public record by now, why deny or be coy about? Blood under the bridge, as they say. At any rate, with both shrinks, my poetry was meant as a creative act, a process meant to transform my personal experience, my personal vision, my personal voice, into capital “A” Art, if that doesn’t sound too pretentious or elitist.
SR: Uh-huh. And do you believe that this attention to craft is what separates you from the bulk of today’s so-called confessional poets?
AS: I would hope so. I mean, I would wish that my work is recognized and published for its artistic merit, not simply because of my own personal traumas and hardships. You can read about that in the morning paper or the tabloids. A reviewer once wrote of my poem, Her Kind, that, while Sexton draws on her own personal experience, she filters it through the language of folk lore and fairy-tale. “I” as heart of the action, but also as an observer, the “eye” who stands witness. There has to be some amount of objectivity at work that knows to separate the wheat from the chaff, the craft from the bullshit. I mean, does anyone really believe that my poem 45 Mercy Street was an actual address that I lived at when I was a child and went searching for as an adult? (She pulled a face and stared at me, hunching her shoulders, like, WTF?) Yes, I deal with themes of loss, fragmentation and identity. I deal with the complex relationship between memory and reality. But, the address, the place, is a fiction, a vehicle used to explore those themes.
SR: I loved the lines, “I open my pocketbook / as women do, / and fish swim back and forth / between the dollars and the lipstick.”
AS: Yeah, as if that one image in itself doesn’t convey: we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
SR: Peter Gabriel, a popular contemporary rock star, wrote a song titled Mercy Street as a tribute to you. When it came out, the magazine New Music Express listed it as one of the “10 most depressing songs ever” while also describing it as a “beautifully produced number”.
AS: There you go, you see, the beauty of creation is more in the how, than the what. I love it. (She looked at the time on her cell and tossed back the remains of her vodka). I’ll be getting my ten-minute call soon.
SR: No problem. One final question: do you have any surprises in store for the audience?
AS: Oh, yeah, you bet. As I figure they’re expecting me to be outrageous in some way, or, at least, more outrageous than the usual presenters, I know I have to up my game, so I’m going with the suicide angle.
SR: In what way?
AS: Well, as you probably recall, back in 1974, one day I simply put on my mother’s old fur coat, removed my rings, poured myself a glass of vodka, locked myself in the garage, started the car engine and ended my life by carbon monoxide poisoning. Can’t really do that on stage. Too elaborate and time consuming. Besides, everyone’s against fur these days, alcohol’s frowned upon as a societal bugbear, and apparently with the present high cost of gasoline, I’m told I couldn’t even afford death by carbon monoxide poisoning anymore, plus, there are strict idling laws in place that would prevent me, which is sort of funny, in a macabre, Orwellian, Nineteen Eighty-Four, kind of way. Also, need something more dramatic, something that involves some level of audience participation, both of which seem to be in these days, and an absolute must. (She pulled a handgun from back of her waist, a classic Colt .45, right out of an old western movie, and pointed it toward the ceiling). The plan is this: at the end of each performance, I take out the gun, insert one bullet, spin the cylinder, place the muzzle to the side of my head, like so, then ask the crowd if I should pull the trigger or not. I assume I’ll be able to whip them into a frenzy — especially with the band backing me with dramatic music — and they’ll eventually scream “do it, do it, do it”, at which point, I’ll squeeze the trigger, and, well, whatever happens, happens. Of course, if I don’t succeed in blowing my brains out, I’ll have to prove that the bullet was real, yeah, by blasting an on-stage vase or plant or something — maybe the drummer, ha! — to smithereens, if only to satisfy the blood urge that’s been accumulating. Also can’t have these fine, respectable people entering the streets full of seething libidinal juices, now, can we? There needs to be a release, pow! (She jerks back her hand, as from a recoil).
SR: Dramatic, yes. Of course, the stunt could also make for a rather short tour.
AS: Yeah, though, between you and me, I’ve increased my odds of success slightly by substituting the usual six-shot cylinder for a nine. I may be crazy but I’m not stupid. That said, there’s still no guarantee. But, hey — that’s show biz, right? Here for a good time, not a long time. And at least I’ll go out with a bang, not a whimper. (She threw back her head and laughed a dirty snorty laugh. Her cell rang and she plunked the revolver down on the table and answered). Oh, yeah, I’m ready. Ready and rarin’. Just say the word. (She gave me a little wave with her hand, like, see ya).
I thanked her for the interview and headed back into the hallway. There were at least two other suicides — and several attempted — invited to read over the weekend. Once word got around, I suspected there might be some competition for grabbing headlines, and that would be enough to fill the seats and keep the audience engaged in a state of fervoured anticipation, right up to the final bow. Give it up for poetry! I ticked the box in my head, and pushed along, toward my next assignment.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher: anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
