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Visceral: The Poetry of Blood
Imagined as a living, breathing, pulsing body of work through which the poetry of blood courses, visceral is a collection of poems, personal essays, and photographs inspired by blood and what it represents. Divided thematically into chapters - or viscera - the work was conceived in 2015 after the author penned a series of poems using his own blood as ink, in protest of the blood donor ban on men who have sex with men. With Oulipian constraints and an unconventional use of the cæsura, Arkhipov invites the reader to pause, inhale, and reflect on abjection, ancestry, faith, intimacy, mortality, and stigma. The diversity of the book's six organs stands as testament to the omnipresent beat of blood in our languages and cultures; Arkhipov's treatment of the homosexual experience in particular highlights the intersection of blood with sex, love, and shame in the gay community. visceral is illustrated with powerful and intimate photographs, conceived by RJ Arkhipov and captured by French photographer Maud Maillard.
- GenresPoetry
90 pages, Hardcover
Published June 14, 2018
About the author
R.J. Arkhipov
1 book11 followersBorn in Wales. Reborn in Paris. RJ Arkhipov is a poet, conceptual artist and translator of homosexual literature. His body of work treats the breadth of the contemporary gay experience. From the manifold manifestations of modern love to the dynamic nature of masculinity, RJ employs a combination of text and image to bear witness to both his own and the broader homosexual condition. Two principal motifs circulate Arkhipov’s work: the male nude and blood. With these carnal devices, RJ sheds light on the extant stigmas within the gay community and draws attention to the societal vestiges of sodomy laws. In September 2015, he performed and exhibited Words&Blood—a poetry series written using his own blood as ink—at the CRISIS performance arts festival in Paris. Most recently, RJ has published a translation of homoerotic poetry, toured with the Polari LGBT literary salon and has penned and narrated a poem on masculinity for an arthouse film.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
August 8, 2018
Reading Visceral leaves me with a Schodinger’s Review conundrum. I’m in two completely different minds on how to approach the book, and I’m hoping that—in the course of writing this review—my divergent perspectives will collapse into something approaching a coherent opinion, but we’ll see how it goes.
One the one hand, this is the freshman collection of RJ Arkhipov. These are verses of the kind that poets have been binding together and passing around for something like 3,000 years. It’s a collection that examines love, sexuality, family and persecution, all through the universal thematic lens of blood. Blood relations, blood feuds, the heart’s blood, blood as injury, the innate traits that are in one’s blood.
On that basis, Visceral is a gorgeous collection that covers a deceptively broad array of subjects (deceptive, considering the thematic tightness suggested by the title).
It will not surprise anyone who has met the author to know that the poetry here is uncompromising, from its emotional honesty through to its proud, queer sexuality. The eroticism of “whiskey” is staggeringly effective and the playfulness of “O”—a concrete poem in concentric circles, which collapses its carnal verse down towards a gasping “o”—is a delight.
“xy” is an early highlight, exploring fluid conceptions of gender by means of an ocean view (“Extending, never ending before us / Whitened waters & quickened skies”), whilst “stargazing” provides a devastating portrayal of losing a loved one to dementia:
It’s bloody good stuff, in other words.
This all leads me to the other face of my Janus-like review, because of course Visceral is rather more than the traditional, Faber & Faber-style, thin volume of newspaper print verse. This is a glossy coffee table hardback. Here we have poetry, photographs and personal essays—there’s even a sculpture in there—it’s one of the most ambitious things that I’ve read in a while.
While the collection is unified by its specific concern with blood, Arkhipov splits his verse according to the various metaphoric aspects that blood has been given in our collective psyches. Blood as family, blood as life, blood as sex—the blood of God. Each section includes photographs and a personal essay from the author exploring the background and themes of the poems that follow.
When the essays work well, they make the poetry truly sing, granting just enough information to truly enrich the verse. This will probably outrage Death of the Author purists (death of the poet?), thinking that a good poem should stand alone, but that would rob much of this work of its intimacy.
The highlight of the collection (for this reader at least) comes in the second section, Ancestry, where Arkhipov narrates the story of his Russian grandfather, who escaped a German POW camp during the Second World War by stealing the identity of a Polish doctor. By the end of the essay, it is clear just how significant the poet’s grandfather is to Arkhipov’s sense of self. The reader then immediately comes to the poem “inside”, subtitled “coming out to prisoner JV5057”. There is suddenly so much more emotional weight as you reach the opening lines:
Whilst Arkhipov is an assured poet, he is a fledgling essayist, and the resultant output does vary in its effectiveness. I couldn’t help occasionally wishing that the editor had taken a firmer hand, just to bring out the poet’s thoughts a little more neatly. Sometimes the essays read more like a thematic primer for ignorant readers than a thoughtful meditation by an author. Still, it’s hard not to be impressed by the ambition of the work as a whole, and whilst some sections are more cohesive than others, the collection is really quite something when it’s firing on all cylinders.
The photographs, by French photographer Maud Maillard, largely depict the author in a queer fantasia—crossdressing, writing in his own blood, shirtlessly re-enacting Alice in Wonderland—mixing vaudevillian homoeroticism with the incongruously macabre. (Falling squarely in the latter category is one particular photograph of an actual heart in a literal cage—oh dear.) Mostly it’s affecting, sometimes a tad more nuance would be appreciated, but the theatrical sensibility feels utterly at home amid Arkhipov’s lush, indulgent use of language (c.f. the above use of the word “marcescent”).
So, have my super-positioned opinions collapsed into a single answer? Apparently not. If I’m reviewing the poetry, it’s great; if I’m reviewing the mad, crazy-ambitious collection as a whole, it’s still great, just with a few flaws showing. Either way it should be bought, read and reread with enough enthusiasm to produce paper cuts—an outcome, given his theme, of which I’m sure the author would approve.
One the one hand, this is the freshman collection of RJ Arkhipov. These are verses of the kind that poets have been binding together and passing around for something like 3,000 years. It’s a collection that examines love, sexuality, family and persecution, all through the universal thematic lens of blood. Blood relations, blood feuds, the heart’s blood, blood as injury, the innate traits that are in one’s blood.
On that basis, Visceral is a gorgeous collection that covers a deceptively broad array of subjects (deceptive, considering the thematic tightness suggested by the title).
It will not surprise anyone who has met the author to know that the poetry here is uncompromising, from its emotional honesty through to its proud, queer sexuality. The eroticism of “whiskey” is staggeringly effective and the playfulness of “O”—a concrete poem in concentric circles, which collapses its carnal verse down towards a gasping “o”—is a delight.
“xy” is an early highlight, exploring fluid conceptions of gender by means of an ocean view (“Extending, never ending before us / Whitened waters & quickened skies”), whilst “stargazing” provides a devastating portrayal of losing a loved one to dementia:
“and I remember
how the darkness stole you
dusk fell gentle painted
stroke by tenebrous stroke
and I remember
for you forgot somewhere
beneath that fragile night
of marcescent moon and mislaid stars
there is a boy remembering”
It’s bloody good stuff, in other words.
This all leads me to the other face of my Janus-like review, because of course Visceral is rather more than the traditional, Faber & Faber-style, thin volume of newspaper print verse. This is a glossy coffee table hardback. Here we have poetry, photographs and personal essays—there’s even a sculpture in there—it’s one of the most ambitious things that I’ve read in a while.
While the collection is unified by its specific concern with blood, Arkhipov splits his verse according to the various metaphoric aspects that blood has been given in our collective psyches. Blood as family, blood as life, blood as sex—the blood of God. Each section includes photographs and a personal essay from the author exploring the background and themes of the poems that follow.
When the essays work well, they make the poetry truly sing, granting just enough information to truly enrich the verse. This will probably outrage Death of the Author purists (death of the poet?), thinking that a good poem should stand alone, but that would rob much of this work of its intimacy.
The highlight of the collection (for this reader at least) comes in the second section, Ancestry, where Arkhipov narrates the story of his Russian grandfather, who escaped a German POW camp during the Second World War by stealing the identity of a Polish doctor. By the end of the essay, it is clear just how significant the poet’s grandfather is to Arkhipov’s sense of self. The reader then immediately comes to the poem “inside”, subtitled “coming out to prisoner JV5057”. There is suddenly so much more emotional weight as you reach the opening lines:
“within these carnal confines, I
damned him to honesty
a sentence that would grant release
from bodily bastille
where my very limbs were limbo
my flesh, captivity…”
Whilst Arkhipov is an assured poet, he is a fledgling essayist, and the resultant output does vary in its effectiveness. I couldn’t help occasionally wishing that the editor had taken a firmer hand, just to bring out the poet’s thoughts a little more neatly. Sometimes the essays read more like a thematic primer for ignorant readers than a thoughtful meditation by an author. Still, it’s hard not to be impressed by the ambition of the work as a whole, and whilst some sections are more cohesive than others, the collection is really quite something when it’s firing on all cylinders.
The photographs, by French photographer Maud Maillard, largely depict the author in a queer fantasia—crossdressing, writing in his own blood, shirtlessly re-enacting Alice in Wonderland—mixing vaudevillian homoeroticism with the incongruously macabre. (Falling squarely in the latter category is one particular photograph of an actual heart in a literal cage—oh dear.) Mostly it’s affecting, sometimes a tad more nuance would be appreciated, but the theatrical sensibility feels utterly at home amid Arkhipov’s lush, indulgent use of language (c.f. the above use of the word “marcescent”).
So, have my super-positioned opinions collapsed into a single answer? Apparently not. If I’m reviewing the poetry, it’s great; if I’m reviewing the mad, crazy-ambitious collection as a whole, it’s still great, just with a few flaws showing. Either way it should be bought, read and reread with enough enthusiasm to produce paper cuts—an outcome, given his theme, of which I’m sure the author would approve.
January 29, 2025
RJ Arkhipov’s collection of poems ‘visceral: the poetry of blood’ appealed to me because it ticked so many of my boxes: gay poetry, with a focus on blood and its intersections with faith, stigma and other areas, in one of the most beautifully presented books I’ve ever held in my gay aesthetically-inclined hands. My luck is such that the collection is as magnetic and arresting as I hoped: six essays, one for each of the “viscera”, and a sprawl of poems and prose-poems divided between each theme, form a holistic body of work fascinated with and mired in blood and all its associations. Arkhipov’s poetry is just so sumptuous, innovative in form and both decadent and measured in its deployment of language (and the photos of him aren’t too bad either...). ‘and the moment is transformed / a tousled bed sheet / becomes a shroud / the gentle percussion of our heartbeats / scoring / a funeral march for men we did not know’, he writes in “afterwards”, reflecting on blood and sex and stigma; the poem “ceremony”, begins ‘in our wanton worship / we abandon / shame’, separately writing on the blood of faith and where the bloods of faith and love mingle. For me his final poem “beyond blood”, subtitled ‘a song of despair’, speaks loudest, reaching its mantra-like apotheosis shortly after Arkhipov writes ‘the silence of a heartbeat / loudening / the lesion / baying at us / to venture / beyond blood’, as though in escaping the life-source of our blood is the only way to attain something greater. Arkhipov is evidently a meteor in hiding, his poems burning, ready to be seen and loved. I for one am so excited for whatever comes next.
August 3, 2019
Nothing short of iconic, RJ Arkhipov pushes me to be a better poet and because of him, my mind has access to places it never before did. I am blessed to finally have received my copy of ‘Visceral’ and I thank RJ for his commitment to his work and for offering his transparency yet again.
Professionally, he is astonishing and his work – his beautifully conceived work – is rich. It gives me a grand pleasure and ultimately a sense of pride to read an offering of this caliber of eloquence and articulation. That’s not to suggest that I expect anything less of the Welshman who wields the scholarly distinctions of life-changing course study and achievement. I humbly consider a rebirth in Paris of my own as a sort of calculated method to enhance the way I communicate my own verse (I joke).
I have an unlimited appreciation for the fulfilled duty of this book; a respective portrayal of the twenty-first century. Albeit words have a reputation for meaninglessness and emptiness, the words of this book function like a connective fiber tethering myself to Arkhipov somewhere across the world as his words seem to resonate with me quite clearly; quite profoundly. Proven by its power to establish meaningful connection, this work indeed “very much” resembles “a living, breathing, pulsing body” as Arkhipov explicates in the introduction.
The final command of the introduction is to take care of the body that Arkhipov calls his own. The body that (just like any other properly functioning body) is comprised of intersectional and interdependent viscera is the body that we as readers of this incredible revolutionary collection have the pleasurable responsibility to care for. I do so joyfully. I conduct rereads, and rereads, caring to take in each detail made available for me, yearning to understand more about the colorful experiences that are ‘Visceral’.
This book is relevant, appropriate and of its time. It’s a careful construction and each section (viscera) is fully described for the reader to have just enough direction to properly engage with the subsequent verses, but simultaneously, plenty of room to keep their mind open to the transparent ideas and revelations that RJ so heedfully relinquishes in this offering.
Professionally, he is astonishing and his work – his beautifully conceived work – is rich. It gives me a grand pleasure and ultimately a sense of pride to read an offering of this caliber of eloquence and articulation. That’s not to suggest that I expect anything less of the Welshman who wields the scholarly distinctions of life-changing course study and achievement. I humbly consider a rebirth in Paris of my own as a sort of calculated method to enhance the way I communicate my own verse (I joke).
I have an unlimited appreciation for the fulfilled duty of this book; a respective portrayal of the twenty-first century. Albeit words have a reputation for meaninglessness and emptiness, the words of this book function like a connective fiber tethering myself to Arkhipov somewhere across the world as his words seem to resonate with me quite clearly; quite profoundly. Proven by its power to establish meaningful connection, this work indeed “very much” resembles “a living, breathing, pulsing body” as Arkhipov explicates in the introduction.
The final command of the introduction is to take care of the body that Arkhipov calls his own. The body that (just like any other properly functioning body) is comprised of intersectional and interdependent viscera is the body that we as readers of this incredible revolutionary collection have the pleasurable responsibility to care for. I do so joyfully. I conduct rereads, and rereads, caring to take in each detail made available for me, yearning to understand more about the colorful experiences that are ‘Visceral’.
This book is relevant, appropriate and of its time. It’s a careful construction and each section (viscera) is fully described for the reader to have just enough direction to properly engage with the subsequent verses, but simultaneously, plenty of room to keep their mind open to the transparent ideas and revelations that RJ so heedfully relinquishes in this offering.
September 19, 2018
My book of the year has to be Visceral. RJ Arkhipov has opened wounds and let it all out with his stunning poetry of blood. In his body of work the six sections are intense in raw honesty and powerful imagery. The authors introduction to each segment of the collection set up the reader for a more involved experience. The homoerotic photography by Maud Maillard with the poet as model bring the verse into the visual. The author is even brought to life in sculpture by Ian Rank-Bradley. Baptism brings to life the night life of Paris where as 'ineffable' is for God "if he's reading". So he should be reading poems like "afterwards" that are evocative and sensual. The writer even plays with the presentation of poetry with typography in the delicate no strings attached, the divine O and the intimate perfect lovers. A stand out poem for me was vernacular where "our love is stolen kisses on quiet streets" lines that linger with you long after. A stunning debut and a much needed new voice on themes that need exploring more. Michael Brown,poet and author.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews