I thought tongues might have left my writing, but my rereading ‘The Master and the Margarita’ (Mikhail Bulgakov) ensured this was not the case.
I was halfway through; there had been no outstanding mention of tongues - it was going well. Then, on page 249, it happened at the opening to the second section:
“Follow me, reader! Who told you that there is no such thing as real, true, eternal love? Cut out his lying tongue!”
It stood in front of me - flapping. Tongues again, I suppose.
This work comes in three parts: image, reflection and field. I imagine this work to be a puddle (image and reflection) amidst a field (the greater context of my work currently - my field of view). If you like this work, consider becoming a paid subscriber to support my writing - it really does help.
[image]
Cut out his lying tongue
Cut out his lying tongue And watch it float To the ocean's edge Where the seas stop, and the earth flattens Where wonder is actualised. Even in death, this tongue lies. What sea's end? What flat earth? I must cut out my lying tongue. I give you a Tongue. Sow it to your own. You do - And it is salty And it makes your lips crack And it slips profanities through these gaps. So you sew your lips shut For you want to keep this one It tells great tales of a sea's edge.
[reflection]
This poem plays in the moral ambiguity between fiction and fact, truth and falsity. The narrator lies, tells a tale of wonder at the edge of the earth and then asserts this as a falsity. The reader is aware of this falsity, though. When one engages in a work of creative fiction, such as a poem, we suspend our disbelief to actively buy into the fictionality of the artistic form. We do this to engage with the work on this imaginative plain where storytelling occurs. The narrator thus gives up on the lie - knowing the reader's disbelief. (I chose this lie to be flat earth because it is such a well-known falsity.)
Thus, the poem shatters the fourth wall, acknowledging the falsity of its own claim. Yet, in this act, it plunges back into the surrealism of the world it initially constructed. This raises the question of whether the narrator is aware of this distinction between fiction and fact, adding to the poem's ambiguity.
I further attempt to establish this through an inconsistent and unstable narrative point of view. The reader questions whose tongue it is or whether there are multiple instances of such 'lying tongues'. Indeed, the circularity of the poem hopes to ask whether the character at the end is, in fact, the one telling this tale all the way through.
[field]
In the last couple of months, I have been increasingly interested in eco- and folk horror and Surrealism (separately). Alongside this, I started re-reading The Master and the Margarita for some magical realism, too. It appears I am craving forms at the edge of fiction. My thoughts have yet to fall so entirely on why the bodily, Surrealism, horror and magical realism are all coming into my creative focus. Something seems to be holding them together (aside from tongues). This has led me down an artistic rabbit hole where I landed on Dalí.
Reading the Phaidon Companion to Dalí, I learned a few things. First, Cubism produced Surrealism—without Picasso, I am not sure we would have it.
Second, Surrealism (and the Surrealist Manifesto) was a reaction to cultural and political rationalism. It heavily drew from Freudian psychoanalytic techniques, which have since been debunked. Despite this, Surrealism continues to be referenced in contemporary art forms, perhaps because of its positivist attempt to use art to aid the transformation of society.
Third, Dalí's existence appears to have been an artistic performance in itself. Indeed, the book notes that his
‘diary reveals his unashamed celebration of egotism: “I am madly in love with myself” he writes, clearly enjoying his assumed role of poseur. He devised a suitable appearance to match this role.’
Existences all have their aesthetics. [1]
This brings me to the photos I have used in this piece. These are by Grete Stern, a Surrealist artist and photographer who aimed to explore women's dreams. If you have not encountered her work, I recommend checking it out. I used these because they mirror the content of the poem.
Notes:
[1] I do want to note that Dalí was a morally reprehensible figure, and his support of facism is an ugly truth which we must remember too. One that should not be forgotten for the harm that it caused.
Bulgakov's Master and Margharita has inspired much art including films and plays. And it obviously has tweaked something in you, which is amazing. Even though Russian productions are banned in the official theatres in Poland, Buffo is playing The Master and Margharita in their private theatre. I saw an incredible version of it in Avignon by Simon Mcburney. Thank you for your inspriration, I believe the transcendance of language and culture is critical in these horrid times.
Beautiful poem—and then even more so with your provided context. I do love to hear creatives' thoughts behind their works; its all so interesting!