Foong, Es. Clot and Marrow. Canberra: Recent Work Press, 2023. RRP: $19.95, 100pp, ISBN: 9780645651287.
Gemma White
Clot and Marrow is an assassination of outdated ideas of gender. It highlights how women have been and continue to be endangered in a contemporary patriarchal society by painting metaphorical pictures of gender identities as if to point out in response: Hey, these things are fluid! We have choice here! This book unites us under our common humanity, stating that no one person has more worth than another. Through words, Foong will love you back into being by sharing lived experience that hits home like a broken bone popping out of skin.
The opening poem in this collection, ‘am breath’, places the reader firmly in and of the body:
am breath.
in.
hold.
out. (viii)
While the long hyphenated and assonated lines opening each stanza of this poem seem to take a manic flight across the page, the reader is brought to a halt with the limitations of breath, of life itself. As if we, humanity, must calm ourselves lest we get overexcited by all that we truly are and all we can hope to experience: ‘throat-lark hum-trill hush’, and the ‘dream-wing slow-joy radiate’ (ix). There is an exquisite beauty in these lines: forget sentimentality, we are ‘arched-spine curdle-bound’ (ix). The choice of vocabulary is delicious in its musicality and its meaning.
The bodily theme is continued in the title poem ‘Clot and Marrow’, in which a five-year-old finds they can ‘find the anger in yourself / lock it into your bones / knit it into your marrow’ (5). Later,
your most vivid colours bleed out of you
each month along with
clot and marrow
there is nothing left for your art
but pastel
and shades of grey (5).
These quotes seem to be alluding to the relationship between reproductive function and the production of art—another kind of creation. The mention of anger from early years is a kind of self-infliction, yet it is knitted into marrow, evoking arts and crafts. The source of the original trauma appears ‘as a death wish’ ‘that even your five year old / self understands’ (4). The words here are dark with meaning, raw and bloody, also suggesting a disappointment with self for there being ‘nothing left’ (5). This could be taken as a feminist commentary, with the push and pull of the biological and the sociological eclipsing attempts to achieve the artistic executive function that the poetic protagonist dreams of.
A poem with a great title, ‘Kindergarten Taught Me Everything I Need to Know About Life’, also touches on gender, using the various equipment in the playground as metaphors for expected gender identities. The narrator is ‘too tomboy to play on the giraffe [slide]’, yet too ‘girlie’ for the ‘swing set’; they are left instead ‘on the monkey bars […] Learning to contort’ (11). This poem is particularly successful in the way it uses imagery to get the reader picturing the playground and even a new lunch box, with concrete details such as ‘Kraft cheese and Goober grape’ situating the reader right along with the speaker (11). The storytelling is so gentle that when the punchline arrives it comes as a simple (under)statement of fact, making it even more powerful.
Foong is not afraid to confront ‘dimly conscious but firmly held stereotypes’, and does so with emotive impact in ‘When You Ask Me’ (15). What starts off as curious, yet potentially confrontational—‘When you ask me where I come from, / what do you mean—exactly?’ (15) develops and becomes more empathic—‘What poetry does your soul dream in? / Shall we share the way home?’ (17). This kind of poem is the mark not just of a dexterous writer, but of a writer who can human well. Empathy is not something that can be taught in a writing class, but it is something that is developed by lived experience and a commitment to forgiveness over hate. We need more work like this, that seeks to see others in all their humanity and that allows literature to take on an important role in society, in spreading understanding.
The poem ‘Gasping’ also discusses seeing past immediate differences to witness shared humanity. It seems to be talking about global warming and rising waters and, while the narrator professes ‘I don’t deserve / this end’, they still understand
it’s never been about
who is worthy,
we are the same
species, the same
sentience, the same
flailing,
drowning soul. (22)
These words talk about unity beyond seeming difference, and how worthiness is inherent in being a soul here on earth.
In ‘That Park’, Foong explores their reaction to the death of Eurydice Dixon, and to a constant wariness that keeps them
untucked […]
always to be awake,
because I’m not
supposed to be here
[….]
we’re not supposed to be here. (20–21)
The idea of never truly feeling safe as a woman is continued in ‘Women’s Histories’, in which a knife is tucked under a pillow, doors are locked and children are pulled close. In ‘My Words Through Your Ears’ the narrator objects to the ‘consideration of a woman’s worth [being] her fuck-ability’, and is tired of crafting ‘an entire person for your consumption’, albeit one with ‘too many awkward political angles’ (23). Again, we are reminded of outdated gender roles, but also the ever-present danger of womanhood: the speaker is consumed, armed, always awake.
In ‘Pregnancy and the Bikini Wax’, the narrator states that they don’t write about the title subjects as they have not experienced either of them, and so they will ‘grow old / alone, In some nursing home / hairy’ (32). The casual inclusion of ‘hairy’ is a nice touch of humour in a poem that is actually discussing quite a deep idea—potential regret over not having had children; ‘I’ll always think’ writes Foong, ‘about both a lot / because I’ve never tried either / and that marks me’ (32). We return to the biological here: the poetic voice has been raised in a broader society that will have one believe a woman is traditionally one who bears children, and admits:
you have to wonder, don’t you?
when you’re female identified
and of a certain age
what it would have been like
if it would have made you happier
better, and more loved (31)
but they have never tried it—either pregnancy nor a bikini wax—acknowledging the performative aspect of gender and in this poem linking it with the concept of trying, like trying on certain clothes.
There are so many more poems in this collection that could be remarked upon. What stays with me is a feeling of the utmost care emanating from these poems. To say they have been well-crafted would be an understatement, more accurate is that they have been well-loved into being. The last poem in Clot and Marrow is a stunner, celebrating ‘the bridges that have spanned every treacherous crossing’, to help you realise ‘You are alive. Thrillingly, tenderly so. And what is that if not proof of the love you’ve been seeking?’ (85). Through experience, through trying on identities, through calling out stereotypes, the poetic voice in Clot and Marrow achieves a new delineation and understanding of self and others.
Gemma White is a poet living in Melbourne/Naarm, Australia. She has had two poetry collections published by Interactive Press; Furniture is Disappearing and Oh My Rapture. She shares her knowledge of poetry at www.gemmawhite.com.au, where she offers a free 5-day email poetry course.