I’ve finished scanning to PDF my second handmade chapbook Manure, added an author’s note to give the title and poetry some context for the reader, and made it available to freely download from this site by going to the Media Page and clicking on the link under it’s cover image.
I have been writing some poems recently which loosely make reference to the movie Dark Water.
I wanted to take this term and broaden its definition a bit to allow for some poetic license. The American version was adapted from the original Japanese,
which was itself loosely based on an actual spooky real life story.
The writers of the American version have taken some artistic license themselves, and I can’t help but see the whole movie as a metaphor for the kind of psychological healing journey that people recovering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, undertake. I can also see in it a kind of spiritual alchemy in which dark water is a code name for some kind of mercurial catalyst. In the movie, it is a kind of medium through which a dead child makes its presence known, and seems to bring about hallucinations both aural and visual.
The psychiatrist Charles Whitfield promotes the theory that PTSD is the cause of most disease, and that finding the true self is the key to healing, and when asked what the true self is, he states that it’s the inner-child, which has been lost, or you might say “drowned” by some kind of physical/emotional trauma.
The initial part of the artistic/creative process often invokes the carefree playful spirit which can just go at it without judging. The judge enters the process later on.
As we know, many an artist has relied on one expedient or more to help them see things differently, and kick-start this process.
Dark Water could be the artistic medium: the ink, or paint, the printed word, or music score.
It could be the intoxicant/expedient/catalyst: tea, coffee, liquor, or opiate.
It could be the Jungian shadow, the Freudian sub-conscious, or the Yin to the Yang.
It could be that beautiful reflection that Narcissus drowned in.
It could be that medium through which the deadened soul can speak.
The following poem is meant as a tribute to the French symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud.
I read an article recently about the photos he took of himself while in Africa, which he apparently developed in “filthy water,” the evidence of which is in the little specks you can see on the prints.
The fact that they were developed this way means that they will inevitably fade completely.
At this point I would like to call attention to his Lettre du Voyant, in which he outlines his poetic manifesto and makes mention of “the Comprachicos” which is a term Victor Hugo used to reference various groups in folklore who would intentionally restrain and muzzle growing children in order to make them look freakish so that they could then be sold to lords and ladies to used as court fools. Rimbaud states that the Voyant, or seer, must make the soul (inner-child) monstrous (a kind of intentional trauma,) which is the common trait of the Enfant Terrible, or Rebel. His idea of a “reasoned deranging of the senses” to attain the unknown, along with his alchemy of the word, help to broaden the concept of Dark Water a little further.
The process is really just a different take on the myth of Prometheus (or Frankenstein,) and there is definitely that sense of the creator as a criminal/rascal/trickster who steals the fire/light. We could also think of the Dark Water as the substance which, at the same time, fuels and controls the fire.
In the movie there’s also an interesting paradox of the below being up above.
DESCENT (A TRIBUTE TO ARTHUR RIMBAUD)
to become as
to derange all
the drowned soul
Then delib’rately fade
Sure, there’s worry,
there’s the inevitable fate
of pain, disfigurement
the weight of numbers
and of future shame to bear.
However, when I wear
this cloak of art,
to my mind’s eye
it’s all so beautifully
a constrained palette.
Cold and discomfort
become chisel and hammer
with which to sculpt character.
Idleness becomes a delicacy
best consumed slowly
to inform the taste.
This cloak of art
is what Otis was wearing
on the dock of the bay.
it offers a different
kind of warmth,
not by keeping
the weather out,
but by inviting it
to focus one’s intent
on rubbing together
of complex longing
and simple play
over the paltry kindling
of an audience
which is yet
to catch on.