It was on a similarly odd day–neither rainy nor sunny, neither winter nor spring–that I went to the Coney Island Aquarium and heard for the first time the freakishly surreal songs of the female walruses. The notion that these inhuman melodies may have inspired the original mermaid myths, became the departure point for my poem [below] "SIREN SERANADE."
The Hans Christian Anderson "Little Mermaid" is a misty, mysterious and melancholy creature. As a child, I was entranced by the mermaid's watery world, the evil sea-witch and her clueless prince–all very PG bittersweet. With today's post-feminist perspective, however, it now seems that the moral really was: being an extraordinary woman will cost you everything you love. The "siren" is the fairy-tale mermaid's R-rated dangerously empowered sister: defined as "a woman who sings with enchanting sweetness" by Merriam-Webster; she is also feared for her mankilling charms–and for all she reputedly did to all those ancient Greek mariners.
As woman trying to find her place in the world, I've often joked that I've felt "too uptown for downtown, too downtown for uptown"–basically a fish out of water. However, thinking of myself as a mermaid-out-of-water has a far more romantic ring to it. (Though I'll pass on the doomed-to-eternal-isolation-curse, thank you very much!)
Below are some of my riffs on these mythological archetypes:
SIREN SERANADE
Weird weather at the Aquarium
eerie whistling pierces the polluted mist
eventually I source the sirens,
voluptuous bald bearded ladies,
pedestaled on artificial boulders,
breathing heavily,
the female walruses
keen for their sires.
At the Coney Island Side Show
the real mermaid,
beached in solitary confinement,
wistfully wails her heart out
in her fathomless language
misunderstood by men.
Her sanity’s buoy:
that she will someday lure the he
who will set her free.
SIREN
The most becoming bait
reels the rod in reverse,
flattering each fisherman
with the thought he caught her
alone.
THE FIGUREHEAD SIREN'S RELATION-SHIP
The crew carved me from the ship’s rib,
dolled me up with paint to their liking,
then they smashed a bottle over my head
declaring, “we’ll follow her wherever she goes!”
Dazed from all the attention, I did as bidden,
taking each storm’s blows upon my bare chest,
parting the waves with my prow-ess,
never a stern word passed my lips.
I did everything to make them like me
but none of the boys would retire with me
saying they “don’t want to wreck
a great business relation-ship.”
Am I too wooden?
Do they see my berth as beneath them?
Or can they not rest easy knowing
it was I who lead them out over their heads?
SIREN'S LAST SIGHTING
For Pamela Harriman*
Seducing mortals had gotten old
anchorless by choice
she backstrokes back
to her original element
salting her wake with tears
for the glittering engagements
she leaves fading behind.
* The woman envied and admired for her powerful lovers and husbands including this partial list: Winston Churchill’s son Randolf, Gianni Agnelli, Averill Harriman, Jock Whitney, Bill Paley, Edward R. Murrow, General Fred Anderson, Baron Elie de Rothchild and Leland Hayward. In 1997 she was 76, serving as the US Ambassador to Paris, when she died swimming in Hotel Ritz’s pool.
DRUNK SIREN SUNK
Dress loudly tight,
high hemmed,
waxed crotch,
obvious as a fire engine,
she careens on the rocks
drowning all conversation.