Marked
May 5 2014


Back when tattoos
were for circus people  
and sailors on leave
and mommy's boys
declaring their permanent love.

When a man's biceps popped
emblazoned with scrimshaw.
And the tattooed lady
was dangerously erotic.
And the jail-house artist
did it for smokes,
respectable folks
kept their God-given bodies
baby-bottom pure.

I'm not sure how she felt,

defiant?

       …transgressive ?

                               …regretful ?

It was on her left breast,
under her bra, over her heart
only her lover saw.
And a gentleman doesn't talk,
except to say
it was small, and beautiful.

We are all marked, scarred
scarified,
terrified
to let our secrets slip.
So what a privilege to see
her naked truth.
Her perfect breasts, golden skin,
the sins of youth
revealed.

She was a high-wire act, circus rider,
the tattooed lady
I so desired.
And with wordless tongue
I professed my love,
left my indelible mark.


I was listening to a TED talk about language: how texting is the first written language that comes closest to speech, and how some linguists have seen it as a rare opportunity to observe an entirely new language evolve in real time. He said he'd like to return in 20 years and see what happens. My immediate thought was that he'll find it long gone and unlamented, like any fad, as dead as Aztec: after all, since I have no use for it, and find it clumsy and unsatisfying, why would anyone else? Obviously, this is one of those generational things, and I'm an old curmudgeon, fuming on the sidelines.

The other generational thing that immediately came to mind was body art: piercings, tattoos. In my day, tattoos were transgressive and rare, and they marked you indelibly in terms of class and taste, not to mention bad judgement. Social class may no longer apply; but taste and judgement sure do. Daily, in the men's change room at the gym, I am exposed to these horribly ugly tattoos, amazed that people would want to so publicly and luridly proclaim their terrible taste.

So I thought it might be fun to write about tattoos. And I also -- unproductively, as it turned out -- thought it might be a handy way of continuing my "colour" series. I came close: "emblazoned with scrimshaw" was originally "with multi-coloured scrimshaw"; and there is, after all, "golden" skin. Other than that, the best I could do was "marked"!

I had no idea it would become a slightly erotic love poem. The turning point was thinking back to my university days, when tattooing oneself was unheard of. I recalled a couple of brave guys getting a small school crest inscribed on a butt cheek. Which is how it was done, way back then: private, discreet, only seen by one's intimates. Of course, a woman's breast is a lot more interesting that a man's butt. And so it went.

...Actually, I find tattoos extremely unsexy: the same superficial supercilious judgment, I guess, that makes me react just as badly to poor grammar and lazy spelling. (Which, come to think of it, brings me full circle back to texting!)