Fuck a Duck!

Tonight I found a poem that spoke volumes to me. It was dog-eared in a book of poetry brought home from the library by my daughter. At first read the title of the poem: ‘The Song of the Fucked Duck’, did not seem to fit the bill (no pun intended), however I persisted and reread to understand what the poet was trying to say and I gasped at how much I identified with her.

Song of the Fucked Duck

Marge Piercy

“In using there are always two.

The manipulator dances with a partner who cons herself.

There are lies that glow so brightly we consent

to give a finger and then an arm

to let them burn.

I was dazzled by the crowd where everyone called my name.

Now I stand outside the funhouse exit, down the slide

reading my guidebook of Marx in Esperanto

and if I don't know anymore which way means forward

down is where my head is, next to my feet

with a pocketful of words and plastic tokens.”

He comes to me out of a functional need, I too have a similar need and I do offer myself freely. I feel alive, dizzy, and confident that I am in charge of my own happiness. I will take from our moment together as much and it will satisfy the desire however temporary. It doesn’t matter that I have felt sadness from losing him, over and over again, all that matters is that in that moment I am dazzled by his presence.

“I never lied.” he says candidly. He didn’t have to lie, I conned myself into believing his feelings for me were more than simply fulfilling a basic need, even if the con was as temporary as our embrace.

“Make him a material thing, a function.” Only a man could offer such advice, advice I will con myself is very good advice.

“I wish you could like me the way I like you.” My lover once said. If only I could understand what way that was and I might begin to like him so, I may even like myself a little more.

He leaves me with words upon a screen, and each line never reads the same the second or the third time; it may as well be double Dutch.

I googled my fucked up Duck poem, (and by the way no one says fucked duck better than a girl from the North of England, even if one doesn’t have a broad northern English accent, it is so fun to say with one, so much that the brogue intensifies). Upon googling said poem, I discovered there was more. So much more and there he was, my lover; he had found his way into the heart and mind of another woman, only my lover was four years old at the time.

Thank you Marge Pierce for helping me know I am not alone. She describes the rational mind of the man and goes on to describe how fantasies unfold in our sleep, that without acting on them we become sour. How liberating it is to be understood, again I thank you Marge Pierce.

One third of life we prowl in the grottos of sleep

where neglected worms ripen into dragons…

Fantasy unacted sours the brain.

Buried desires sprout like mushrooms on the chin of the morning.

The will to be totally rational

is the will to be made out of glass and steel:

and to use others as if they were glass and steel.

We can see clearly no farther

than our hands can touch.

I will continue to allow my lover the use of me freely as he chooses, and I really do look forward to his next need for function. I will not bury my desires, and I will continue to act out my fantasies.

For the full poem go to:

http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~richie/poetry/html/poem167.html