This is a cold poem in more ways than one.The subject matter is seasonally icy and so is the tone of the speaker. The insouciant delivery suggests pride and even aggressive narcissism. The carefully selected lexis is designed to alienate and confound the listener. We feel unsettled by the barely contained ‘smile’ or ‘smirk’ that lurks behind each word and adds infectious poison to the casually proffered anecdotes. Carol Ann Duffy is adept at finding different voices for each of her monologues and this voice is not one I would wish to meet even on a well lit car park at any time of day.
I have also been reading Sherlock Holmes today; the first novel in fact, A Study In Scarlet in which Dr Watson and Holmes meet and work together for the first time. Reading Conan Doyle , with his careful construction of Holmes and all his meticulously icy observations reminded me Carol Ann Duffy’s dramatic monologues and obviously Robert Browning’s monologues too. Holmes thrives in his detection because he is an acute observer of detail, especially incongruent detail. Duffy in her poem Stealing ambushes the reader’s interest straight away with the shock of the initial, seemingly incongruous admission: bathos is used here like a slap in the face. There is something premeditated and macabre about the iconic choice of victim, all the more today perhaps as we approach Christmas.
The speaker is celebrating his cruelty through retelling his tale of his ‘unusual’ victim. As in Browning’s monologues, the audience is aware of the pleasure the speaker enjoys through the lingering reenactment of the original crime, and this places the audience in an awkward situiation too as to our motivation in listening. Are we listening aghast? Listening for prurient pleasure? Listening fascinated to the voice of a mad person?
More to come.
Stealing.
The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life’s tough.
Sometimes I steal things I don’t need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I’m a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.
I watch my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger’s bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this – Aah.
It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn’t look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone among lumps of snow, sick of the world.
Boredom. Mostly I’m so bored I could eat myself.
One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was the strangest.
You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?