Wow. Just wow. After reading only the fourth page of Carson’s prose, that was all I could think. I am amazed by the way in which she paints such a clear picture of how Geryon experiences childhood, as it is so visceral I feel as though I am going through it myself. From the soft question for his mother “What does each mean?” (Carson 11, l. 11), to “he spelled it at school on the blackboard” (l. 16), she builds a child’s world that almost anyone can easily imagine. And yet, there is room for difference, even divergence in this passage, as the lyric poetry so often focuses on.
In the first half of the page, Carson describes the fact that Geryon does not only read or hear the word “each” but he actually sees and feels it. As we discussed in class, this condition, which is called synesthesia, allows a person to hear colors. Carson beautifully puts this neurodivergent aspect of Geryon to work here, by writing “the word each blew towards him and came apart on the wind” (l. 5). I especially love this passage because while I was reading it I felt a chill run up my own spine, as if I was experiencing the word along with Geryon. and THAT is why I find Carson’s poetry even more visceral than any of the others that I have read. She not only paints the picture but paints it so vividly that I can feel it in my very being.
When she writes, further down the page, about the situation by which Geryon came to live in his brother’s room, she describes it exactly the way a child might, if that child saw through images rather than mere description. This intersection of simplicity and difference is what makes her language here so impactful. “The doctors put her together again with a big pin” (L 21-22). She shows so much, and tells so little. And that, my friends, is the beauty of Carson.