Heart of Cold by Gregory Woods

(Quidnunc, Carcanet)

Poets see something that catches their attention - another person, perhaps, in a magazine or walking down a street (they might even follow them while constructing their verse), in a supermarket, on a train, or in an art gallery as a painting or statue - and write about them. But in doing so, the origin of the inspiration is sometimes obscured, ob- vious though it is in the mind of the poet - who knows exactly who or what he or she is talking about.

As a result there are occasions when we are intimidated by our own uncertainty as to the actual definition of the subject. This is when we must be resolute and make an imposition on our reading of the poem, so that we may enjoy it for what we find in it for ourselves.

This poem is about the adoration of a male form; I just don't know if the form is living, painted, sculpted or photographed. However, no one is disappointed by the figure in question. When the poet writes how “the besotted... were never near to sated” he confirms that even though the legion of admirers couldn't get enough of their hunk, they felt that they got their money's worth.

There is a case of “Extreme detachment” which suits both parties and makes me think that the figure of adoration is a statue. But when the poet goes on to say that “we” (as in the voyeurs) wouldn't have been so excited “If anything unphysical had been inserted,” I am persuaded to think that this is a man in a magazine or painting, where insertion of the unphysical, such as text or anything literary that is not visually associated with the man's physical body, would be of little interest (his IQ, for instance).

No part of this object of desire has remained unexplored; this is a man on display. Every indentation (unlocked concavity) and embraced (enfolded) bump or curve (convexity) has been fingered in some way. People find what they lack in themselves in this object of adoration; he engenders no small emotion, only excessive admiration or obsession. Being distant, it is easy for others to impose their own ideas of his hidden depths upon him; he could be all things to all people.

Yet “His eyes are empty as a statue's” which brings me back to thinking that he is one - and his heart is as hard as marble - perhaps because he's carved of marble. Then I read that his muscles are lightly haired and his skin is honey-tanned and think that he might be a figure in a painting - or perhaps a waxwork that shows every human crease and hair in an effort to replicate a human body.

This man is envied, so he must possess physical attributes that men covet... and in comparison to this paragon we are “the common herd” who provide him with his income. If he is a model in a photograph this would seem to fit; the man earns money through hiring himself - or bits of himself - out to others for “any purpose”, thereby prostituting himself. Of course, the rich hoard bestowed by his beauty will fade with time - unless he just happens to be Michelangelo's statue of David.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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