Intuitive Journey and Other Works

by Russell Edson

Russell Edson (1935 – April 29, 2014) was an American poet, novelist, writer and illustrator, and the son of the cartoonist-screenwriter Gus Edson. He studied art early in life and attended the Art Students League as a teenager. He began publishing poetry in the 1960s. His honors as a poet include a Guggenheim fellowship,[1] a Whiting Award, and several fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.[2]

Genres: Poetry, Short Stories

193 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1976

About the author

Russell Edson (December 12, 1928 – April 29, 2014) was an American poet, novelist, writer, and illustrator. He was the son of the cartoonist-screenwriter Gus Edson.

He studied art early in life and attended the Art Students League as a teenager. He began publishing poetry in the 1960s. His honors as a poet include a Guggenheim fellowship, a Whiting Award, and several fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Russell Edson was born in Connecticut in 1935 and lived there with his wife Frances. Edson, who jokingly has called himself "Little Mr. Prose Poem," is inarguably the foremost writer of prose poetry in America, having written exclusively in that form before it became fashionable. In a forthcoming study of the American prose poem, Michel Delville suggests that one of Edson's typical "recipes" for his prose poems involves a modern everyman who suddenly tumbles into an alternative reality in which he loses control over himself, sometimes to the point of being irremediably absorbed--both figuratively and literally--by his immediate and, most often, domestic everyday environment. . . . Constantly fusing and confusing the banal and the bizarre, Edson delights in having a seemingly innocuous situation undergo the most unlikely and uncanny metamorphoses. . . .

Reclusive by nature, Edson has still managed to publish eleven books of prose poems and one novel, The Song of Percival Peacock (available from Coffee House Press).

Reviews

[Glenn Russell · Rating 5 out of 5]

To celebrate the bright strawberry in the sky (what some people refer to as the sun), I'd like to share a number of my favorite Russell Edson pieces from this, my favorite Russell Edson book. As if slices of scrumptious strawberry pie, I hope you find the writing delectable.


TURTLES
Bales of turtles descend like floating oriental villages; and still they come, until the hills are only turtles, until there is no surface of the immediate earth that is not a turtle. They cover the trunks of trees, the branches. They are everywhere!
People are forced to shovel their way to the roads; forced to shovel out their beds at night; only to awaken from dreaming endlessly of turtles, covered with turtles.
People becomes so distracted they no longer remember how to speak, they do not know words anymore; only turtle . . . They stare, their heads askew, whispering, turtle, turtle, turtle . . .


THE GINGERBREAD WOMAN
An old woman wishes she could climb into her own basket, like a gingerbread woman, the one who would have naturally married the gingerbread man, had they been made with more detail in their genital areas.
. . . How nice to lie in a basket on a linen napkin, near a pot of jam and a chicken leg, being kissed by a gingerbread man . . . Summer shadow, summer light, branch sway . . . Delight!


IN THE FOREST
I was combing some long hair coming out of a tree . . .
I had noticed long hair coming out of a tree, and a comb on the ground by the roots of that same tree.
The hair and the comb seemed to belong together. not so much that the hair needed combing, but the reassurance of the comb being drawn through it . . .
I stood in the gloom and silence that many forests have in the pages of fiction, combing the thick womanly hair, the mammal-warm hair; even as the evening slowly took the forest into night . . .




Similar to the illustration at the very top, this woodcut print is by Russell Edson himself. As something of a bonus, here are the first several lines of the prose poem:

A ROOF WITH SOME CLOUDS BEHIND IT
A man is climbing what he thinks is the ladder of success.
He's got the idea, says father.
Yes, he seems to know the direction, says mother.
But do you realize that some men have gone quite the other way and brought up gold? says father.
Then you think he would do better in the earth? says mother.
I have a terrible feeling he's on the wrong ladder, says father.
But he's still in the right direction, isn't he? says mother.
Yes, but, you see, there seems to be only a roof with some clouds behind it at the top of the ladder, says father.
Hmmm, I never noticed that before, how strange. I wonder if that roof and those clouds realize that they're in the wrong place, says mother.
I don't think they're doing it on purpose, do you? says father.
No, probably just a thoughtless mistake, says mother.

[Jack Rousseau · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Intuitive Journey and Other Works consists of two books: "The Intuitive Journey" and "The Childhood of an Equestrian"...

My favourite prose poems from "The Intuitive Journey"...

A scientist has a test tube full of sheep. He wonders if he should try to shrink a pasture for them.
They are like grains of rice.
He wonders if it is possible to shrink something of of existence.
He wonders if the sheep are aware if their tininess, if they have any sense of scale. Perhaps they just think the test tube is a glass barn . . .
He wonders what he should do with them; they certainly have less meat and wool than ordinary sheep. He he reduced their commercial value?
He wonders if they could be used as a substitute for rice, a sort of woolly rice . . .
He wonders if he just shouldn't rub them into a red paste between his fingers.
He wonders if they're breeding, or if any of them have died.
He puts them under a microscope and falls asleep counting them . . .
- Counting Sheep (pg. 12)


When the God returns he gives the world to mannequins and toys. Dummies in store windows receive the world as though the world had always been theirs. Dolls that children played with are suddenly the masters; families are consigned to shelves and playrooms.
The world crawls with motherless toys that murmur, mama. Naked female mannequins, without vaginas, walk the roads at night like human ghosts . . .
A Raggedy Ann confronts a family at dinner. The painted smile is suddenly full of small animal teeth. She orders them out of the dining room into a closet.
They must obey.
She wants to cut mother's head off. She wants to cut father's penis off. She wants to open junior to see what's inside of junior.
They must obey . . .
- When the God Returns (pg. 26)


Some gentlemen are floating in the meadow over the yellow grass. They seem to hove by those wonderful blue little flowers that grow there by those rocks.
Perhaps they have floated up from that nearby graveyard?
They drift a little when the wind blows.
Butterflies flutter through them . . .
- The Gentlemen in the Meadow (pg. 44)


A lighted window floats through the night like a piece of paper in the wind.
I want to see into it. I want to climb through into its lighted room.
As I reach for it it slips through the trees. As I chase it it rolls and tumbles into the air and skittles on through the night . . .
- The Lighted Window (pg. 71)

from "The Childhood of an Equestrian"...

A small girl had been given a pony because the anniversary of her entrance into this state had come round again.
Take your pony behind the house and mount him; we do not with to see you make a mockery of modest as your little gown blows up to reveal those lace undergarments, which are worn to keep your excretory openings in decorous hiding, said the mother.
The small girl led the pony around the back of the house and proceeded to mount the small horse.
Do not get on my back, I don't want you there, said the pony.
When the small girl returned to her parents and advised them of the pony's attitude they replied, get away from us.
Father said, you are only trying to create a situation when we shall be forced to view your underclothes.
No no, it is the pony who refuses to cooperate, cried the little girl.
We do not want you to be here anymore, said her mother.
Indeed, said father, I would rather the pony to this child.
The little girl began to cry.
Yes, said mother, I believe the pony will be our new child.
In which case today shall be the pony's birthday, said father.
And our daughter who is no longer our daughter shall be a gift to the pony, said mother.
The little girl was crying.
You will give the pony your pretty dress and lace loincloth, said mother, and we shall no worry about your modesty because you are now an animal which is to be given to our new daughter on her birthday.
And so they dressed the pony in their little daughter's clothes.
They said to the pony, take this animal behind the house and mount it, for we have no wish to be advised as to what it is you wear on your excretory area.
Soon the pony came around the house riding the naked little girl. She was crying.
- The Birthday Party (pg. 97-98)


An equestrian fell from his horse.
A nursemaid moving through the wood espied the equestrian in his corrupted position and cried, what child has fallen from his rockinghorse?
Merely a new technique for dismounting, said the prone equestrian.
The child is wounded more by fear than hurt, said the nursemaid.
The child dismounts and is at rest. But being interfered with grows irritable, cried the equestrian.
The child that falls from his rockinghorse refusing to remount fathers the man with no woman taken in his arms, said the nursemaid, for women are as horses, and it is the rockinghorse that teaches the man the way of love.
I am a man fallen from a horse in the privacy of a wood, save for a strange nursemaid who espied my corruption, taking me for a child, who fallen from a rockinghorse lies down in fear refusing to father the man, who mounts the woman with the rhythm given in the day of his childhood on the imitation horse, when he was in the imitation of the man who incubates in his childhood, said the equestrian.
Let me help you to your manhood, said the nursemaid.
I am already, by the metaphor, the don of the child, if the child father the man, which is involuted nonsense. And take your hands off me, cried the equestrian.
I lift up the child which is wounded more by fear than hurt, said the nursemaid.
You life up a child which has rotted into its manhood, cried the equestrian.
I lift up as I lift all the fall and are made children by their falling, said the nursemaid.
Go away from me because you are annoying me, screamed the equestrian as he beat the fleeing white shape that seemed like a soft moon entrapped in the branches of the forest.
- The Childhood of an Equestrian (pg. 101-102)


When we set sail I had no idea that the sails would bloat with wind like pregnant women.
I brought this to the attention of the Captain.
He adjusted my offended modesty by saying that the sails were married, and that by no means would he allow prostitutes to bear us forth.
An immediate applause broke from my hands.
- A Journey by Water (pg. 107)


The man's head is a vehicle . . . No no, let it sleep.
It has hair growing from its trouble. Hair grows out of the idea of death. The head is death with hair upon it. Also it is a vehicle upon which it is itself to ride through dreams and suppertime.
Do you see how the china is full of intestinal matter?
Soon, too soon, the soft mouth of the worm is eating the idea of itself . . .
- Through Dream and Suppertime, for W.C.W. (pg. 137)

[Eryk · Rating 5 out of 5]

What can I say about Edson, he's one of my favorite prose poets (or of flash fiction, if you prefer--the lines move back and forth on any given day). Published in 1976, he continues till this day to use the same formula of very short, surreal poems that almost read like fairy tales. And you know what? It works. Still. It doesn't go stale. About 75% of the poems in this book involve animals (also very prominent in his other books), with an exceptional liking to frogs, toads, oxen, cows, and apes. When not incorporating animals, I'm always amazed at how he meshes the ideas of birth, the elderly, and sex in his works--sometimes in the same poem! His stuff is funny, sad, obnoxious (one deals with how to court a heavy woman), and disgusting (see the below poem!). A few of the pieces in this collection are a bit longer (1 - 1 1/2 pgs) than his more recent works, and tend more to be what I consider flash fiction and/or short-shorts. Either way, his writing and insane creativity can only be understood through reading his poetry. And with that, I leave you with one of the poems in the book: "APE."

Enjoy!

APE

You haven't finished your ape, said mother to father,
who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.

I've had enough monkey, cried father.

You didn't eat the hands, and I went to all the
trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.

I'll just nibble on its forehead, and then I've had enough,
said father.

I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said
mother.

Why don't you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay
the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured
skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These
aren't dinners, these are post-mortem dissections.

Try a piece of its gum, I've stuffed its mouth with bread,
said mother.

Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into
its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.

Break one of the ears off, they're so crispy, said mother.

I wish to hell you'd put underpants on these apes; even a
jockstrap, screamed father.

Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything
more thn simple meat, screamed mother.

Well what's with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates?
screamed father.

Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature?
That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after
we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after
breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband,
that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity . . . ?

I'm just saying that I'm damn sick of ape every night,
cried father.

[Thomas Baughman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Russell Edson is,undoubtedly, the finest unknown poet in the United States today. He is a virtuoso of the prose poem; his brief pieces are are searing satires that contain both a sense of comic irreverence and an ironic sympathy for our absurd lives.
Here are two samples of his work:
A Journey By Water
When we set sail I had no idea the sails would float with wind
like pregnant women.
I brought this to the attention of the captain
He adjusted my offended modesty by saying that the sails were
married, and that by no means would he allow prostitutes to
bear us forth.
An immediate applause broke forth from my hands.
The Gentleman in the Meadow
Some gentleman are floating in the meadow over the yellow grass.
they seem to hover by those wonderful blue little flowers that grow
there by those rocks.
Perhaps they have floated up from thata nearby graveyard?
They drift a little when the wind blows.
Butterflies flutter through them...
Read it. Savor it, Read it again.

[Amy · Rating 5 out of 5]

i love this man's work. He is absurd and surreal and brilliant. If you can get your hands on this do it for yourself. i once took a kid to the E.R> and read him about half a book of poetry while we waited. It is so imaginative and ludicrous you are bound to fall for it.

[Craig Morgan Teicher · Rating 4 out of 5]

I had this out of my college library almost the entire time I was in college.

[Robert Morgan Fisher · Rating 5 out of 5]

If you like the flash fiction of Lydia Davis (and Diane Williams) this book is a must-read. Davis has repeatedly stated her admiration for Edson's work and it was this book of what are essentially prose poems that changed everything for her.

That's why I read this and I'm glad I did. As I savored every page, I could just envision Davis lapping it up and suddenly finding her own voice. Many of these poems feel like they could've been written by Davis. Some are better than others, but it's all there.

I don't believe there's a paperback edition of this out—I got mine used. Shame—as this is an important writer and seminal influence in the art of flash-fiction.