The Friday Poem on 11/11/22
We chose the poem ‘Imagining Sow’ by Roger Elkin to be our Friday Poem this week partly to coincide with Will Daunt’s lovely piece about Elkin, up on the Frip now, but also because we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to introduce everyone to the pig at the centre of this generous, animated and persuasive poem. Elkin holds a hand out to us as readers, inviting us to imagine a particular event. The horrible details become clear by the end of the poem, and are fully revealed by the footnote. We luxuriate in the rich and specific language, in the slow but inexorable build in tension, and in the various clues which help to locate the poem. It’s beautifully done, and terribly grim.
Imagining Sow
Imagine her grin’s wicked innocence —
the sly-eyed tightness of her gaze
glazing over in her blear of peering,
her almost show of not knowing
Imagine her wet ferreting-out snout
nuzzling through earth-dust,
her maunching at slops, swill and peelings,
thwacking chops between comfortable grunts
Imagine her lying islanded in mire
belly swelling in illusion of fulness,
her sprawled in mud, a gigantic potato,
flanks and back smirched in shit-dirt
Imagine her ringlet tail, and strip of pinking tits
with nipples like chitting shoots
new spritting pushing through and
worn sore by suckling her shrilling litter
Imagine her strutting her trot of a run,
her swagger of back, thump of rump —
this neat little potato-eater sashaying
between kids’ feet in the cabin’s crush and clatter
Imagine the thinness of winter — the frost,
the snow, the grim winds, potato-stocks rotted,
no crops, no oats, nothing to eat so no leftovers,
no straw — earth frozen, mud ruts cutting feet,
water an ice-sheet — fever and dysentery setting in,
her owner lying alone, family dead, him helpless,
too weak to run, too done-in,
too thin to give resistance
Imagine the sow fixing her wicked grin,
her not knowing him, then begin sinking in
her rending jaw … the pain … the screams …
Imagine … imagine …
“His death was caused by hunger and cold. There was not a particle of food found in the deceased’s stomach or intestines. Those who saw the body were of the opinion from the agonised expression on M’Manus’s countenance, that he was alive when the pig attacked him… Both the legs, as far as the buttocks, appeared to be eaten off.”
Inquest of Thomas M’Manus of Kilmactranny, Sligo
The [Belfast] Vindicator, 20th January, 1847
