The horror of human physicality
is something lovers and doctors
don’t seem to mind. But all poetry
reflects disgust and praises beauty.
Human deformity awes me quietly.
Respected poets have been known to find
many disgusting examples of this.
Even I, who have been passionately
in the clutches of a delicious kiss,
feel nothing but disgust when I examine those
moving through the station,
breasts that sag, a big nose,
bags under the eyes, the legs wobbly or thin.
In “After the Opera,” DH Lawrence observes
“the reddened, aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms.”
In her poem, “In the Waiting Room,” Elizabeth Bishop says
“Their breasts were horrifying.”
I upset a very beautiful woman once
when I complained of too much hair on her arms.
It’s nearly an obsession with my poetry.
It isn’t mockery. It’s everything I see!
The only thing I ask, is that maybe you can pity me?