I am graphic Grimm, anatomically true.
Illustrated by Hockney, Freud,
not Rackham, not Disney,
not other-eyed you.
The Nihilist Line is divided into 10 parts, each part preceded by a short symbolic creationist narrative which, in turn, gives rise to a kind of magic realism that is lifting out of Wattison's domestic world (offered as daughter, wife and mother in various modes/roles of being). It would not be in keeping with Wattison's negative dialectic if I were to record the undercurrent of practices and thoughts which hold this collection together.
Nihilism is, as it states in my tattered Collins dictionary, 'the rejection of all religious and moral principles as the only means of obtaining social progress'. So, what does Wattison mean by crossing the nihilist line? Does she mean that she no longer rejects what nihilism rejects? The paradox of nihilism is that it cannot demonstrate an antithesis without becoming what it rejects. I remember that Karl Mannheim determined that all thought had an ideological character, but was criticised because his argument amounted to a form of relativistic nihilism.
Mannheim continued to write in the face of criticism until he discovered that only one social group existed that was free of value judgements and moral absolutes, ie. the intelligentsia. Poets, of Wattison's calibre, would fit into this group but, is the poetry (the linguistic expression of her thoughts) testimony to an essential and necessary nihilism? Are poets 'free' from judgement and morality if they put the conditions of that 'freedom' in writing? This is the fun Freud would have brought to the surface, the fundamental paradox of any social agent who categorises his/her motives. The nihilism in Wattison's work/title does not stand up to philosophical critique, but it does exemplify the poet's basic need to use a philosophical appellation and the critique of reflexivity in order to defend a playfully liberal-minded and erotic lifestyle.
I have no idea why Wattison would need to defend herself: the issue of an implied (veiled) infidelity during her 15 year marriage doesn't amount to anything dysfunctional (nor wrong, nor bad). The poetry does not suggest that any domestic complications arose because of her extra-marital activities (on three occasions Meredith crossed the nihilist line) but is presented as an attack upon 'boredom' within the marriage itself. Significantly, this opens Wattison to a sometimes inspirational and, often erotically-charged, poetry.
One of my favourite poems in the collection is 'Silken Sleeve', in which Wattison manages to alleviate all my fears and anxieties in regard to how someone might read her work:
I suggest an over-sleeve when over dressed.
I suggest the rolling up of sleeves is sacrificial,
forearms a raw delicacy. I suggest sex
by the curl of my mouth while cooking, the fish,
as wet as its gorgeous, quick existence, headless
and dead. I suggest not picking the bones from it
as though offended; better to be love struck
and sensually moved.
The poem entitled 'All These Stars Make My Head Go Back' is one of several which involve Wattison's children. These are lyrically fresh and eye-opening poems, as in 'Intro' (where the newborn pokes Meredith in the eye during its first exploration of the mother's face), 'Open' (where mum cuts herself and the children respond) and, 'Fist For Craters' (where Mars is viewed as a playground for children):
With Martian sand pooling and hilling
in their shoes,
their socks cuffed and soled red,
their toes separated and webbed
by grains of talcum sand,
the drug of a new child's breath
puffs on each fast and fluid step.
Other poems in this oeuvre include the magnetic and artful 'Love Bird' (love as a way of dealing with death), 'Moment, O' (regarding adoration of the son) and, the brilliant 'Mummy's A Landscape, Enfant Terrible' with its opening lines:
You walk out of her
like a prophet,
tell her things
Wattison's poetry will offer a challenge to some readers. The challenge concerns the use of a language which is anatomically austere and socially affluent. Her poetry has the appeal of Monique Wittig (at her best), but it does not radicalise (rather, it seeks consummation). The containment of Wattison within the paradox of her domestic situation involves a dedication to vamped up kitchen and parlour room ethics: constantly I am asked to have an interest in her dress sense and culinary skills though sex in the kitchen can be dangerous, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be... And I don't know whether I should laugh or cry when Wattison attempts to usurp Judith Rodriguez's famous 'Nu-Plastik Fanfare Red' with her own 'Siren In The Plush, Pink Kitchen' - then, this poem has more in common with Denise Levertov's explicit (early-mid 19th century) love poetry than the former Penguin editor's.
But I haven't said anything about the mermaid. The fishwife. The metaphor. The Plathian stars-and-ocean style of writing which allows Wattison's reader to enter her psyche, to observe her Henry Miller persona in action, 'ankles on shoulders' as it were. This opening of the adult treasure chest I leave to the reader's imagination.
(Reviewed by Richard Hillman, September 2004)
