Poetry of Marty McConnell > Woodland Pattern Book Center

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Marty McConnell

Marty McConnell transplanted herself from Chicago to New York City in 1999, after completing the first of three national tours with the Morrigan, an all-female performance poetry troupe she co-founded. She received her MFA in creative writing/poetry from Sarah Lawrence College, and competed in the 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2006 National Poetry Slams with the NYC/louderARTS team. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies as well as literary magazines including Rattapallax, Fourteen Hills, 2River View, and Blue Fifth Review. She co-curates the flagship reading series of the louderARTS Project, a literary nonprofit which runs three reading series, ongoing workshops and collaborative performances in NYC. She appeared on both the second and fifth seasons of HBO's Def Poetry Jam, and performs nationwide with the Piper Jane Project.

Joan of Arc to the $2,000-An-Hour Woman

Marty McConnell

Jason would be saying, "Natalia is the greatest escort in the history of the world, as good as Cleopatra or Joan of Arc," and I'd be like, "Jason! Joan of Arc was not an escort, she was a religious martyr."

- New York Magazine, July 18, 2005

at least your pimp has a name, a neck
you could put your two good hands around.
he loves you like all men love
what they sell, what comes back
in gold. make no mistake, my God
was a man: men with their mouths
at the entrance to the cave, whispering,
men dripping hallucinogens into the milk,
men insisting lead us, lead us, have this horse
this sword this sentence this pyre. men naked
under their robes, their armor, their teeth
bartering my skin for their country, a cause
I would have sworn was mine.
Cleo and I place bets on women like you.
from this distance, your dance looks like ours.
and Vashti's, and Salomé's, and Helen's,
and you're acquainted with the Magdalene.
our mythical knees locked or spread,
bringing men to theirs and us to the gallows
the tower the stake / trade your corset for a habit
and they'll hate you all the same: whatever cannot
be possessed is poison. the body is never bought
but rented which is why he wants your heart, bound
like feet, dancing only for him.
let me tell you something about possession: never
let a man dictate your wingspan or your footwear.
there's a god on every corner and not one
would have you mortgage your given body
for this man and his fur-lined tongue. don't think
I don't know about love; more goes unreported
in history than in myth. sell your story, Natalia,
before they scrape it from under your fingernails
as evidence / cut your hair. buy a building
in Brooklyn. lay down on a bed of teeth, alone.
peel back their fingerprints one by one, each incision
the hot face of a god, unfolding.

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