Tuesday, July 9, 2013

cats like angels AND Massimo Poggios figgy balls

One of my favorite poems is Marge Piercy's "Cats Like Angels" and in particular i have always been struck by her image of "men with..figgy balls."  what are figgy balls?  how does one know some figgy balls when one encounters figgy balls.  well,  i managed to finally watch Il Compleanno  in which one gets to wallow in the delight that is Massimo Poggio but endures the agony that is watching Thyago Alves "act"....and he's just pretty enough to get away with it.....anyhoo......in the film we are treated with the best cinematic example of some truly figgy balls as Massimo Poggio runs down the stairs after Francessca flees after walking in and finding Matteo (Massimo) giving David (Thyago) a serious fucking.  truly a delight to behold!!!  and to hold, i'm sure.  I often worry that Marge Piercy is the poet i keep pestering people to read.....but i also pester people to read Mary Oliver, Paul Monette, and Rigoberto Gonzalez (who would have dropped some much better shit than Richard Blanco's Inaugural Poem....it sucked y'all, and not in the good way!)  anyways, Massimo Poggio's plump, fulsome, and figgy balls were such a treat that i've decided he's my newest insanely jealous and possesive imaginary boyfriend:
yep, he's prett-eh.  and has the fuzzes in all the right places, too.
now, here's Marge Piercy's poem:
Cats Like Angels

Cats like angels are supposed to be thin;
pigs like cherubs are supposed to be fat.
People are mostly in between, a knob
of bone sticking out in the knee you might
like to pad, a dollop of flab hanging
over the belt. You punish yourself,
one of those rubber balls kids have
that come bouncing back off their own
paddles, rebounding on the same slab.
You want to be slender and seamless
as a bolt.

When I was a girl
I love spiny men with ascetic grimaces
all elbows and words and cartilage
ribbed like cast up fog-grey hulls,
faces to cut the eyes blind
on the glittering blade, chins
of Aegean prows bent on piracy.

Now I look for men whose easy bellies
show a love for the flesh and the table,
men who will come in the kitchen
and sit, who don't think peeling potatoes
makes their penis shrink; men with broad
fingers and purple figgy balls,
men with rumpled furrows and the slightly
messed look at ease of beeds recently
well used.

We are not all supposed
to look like undernourished fourteen year
old boys, no matter what the fashions
ordain. You are built to pull a cart,
to lift a heavy load and bear it,
to haul up the long slope, and so
am I, peasant bodies, earthy, solid
shapely dark glazed clay pots that can
stand on the fire. When we put our
bellies together we do not clatter
but bounce on the good upholstery.

Marge Piercy