That was the summer my best friend called me a faggot on the telephone, hung up, and vanished from the earth,
a normal occurrence in this country where we change our lives with the swiftness of hysterical finality
of dividing cells. That month the rain refused to fall, and fire engines streaked back and forth crosstown
towards smoke-filled residential zones where people stood around outside, drank beer and watched their neighbors houses burn.
It was a bad time to be affected by nearly anything, especially anything as dangerous
as loving a man, if you happened to be a man yourself, ashamed and unable to explain how your feelings could be torn apart
by something ritual and understated as friendship between males. Probably I talked too loud that year
and thought an extra minute before I crossed my legs; probably I chose a girl I didn't care about
and took her everywhere, knowing I would dump her in the fall as part of evening the score,
part of practicing the scorn it was clear I was going to need to get across this planet
of violent emotional addition and subtraction. Looking back, I can see that I came through
in the spastic, furtive, half-alive manner of accident survivors. Fuck anyone who says I could have done it
differently. Though now I find myself returning to the scene as if the pain I fled
were the only place that I had left to go; as if my love, whatever kind it was, or is, were still trapped beneath the wreckage
of that year, and I was one of those angry firemen having to go back into the burning house; climbing a ladder
through the heavy smoke and acrid smell of my own feelings, as if they were the only goddamn thing worth living for.
I'd rec Louis Gluck, Audre Lorde, Sharon Olds is a classic and I'm stuck on the books about her father dealing with cancer for reasons. For spoken word, check out this channel https://www.youtube.com/user/ButtonPoetry
Re: poetry thread
"One Season"
Tony Hoagland
That was the summer my best friend
called me a faggot on the telephone,
hung up, and vanished from the earth,
a normal occurrence in this country
where we change our lives
with the swiftness of hysterical finality
of dividing cells. That month
the rain refused to fall,
and fire engines streaked back and forth crosstown
towards smoke-filled residential zones
where people stood around outside, drank beer
and watched their neighbors houses burn.
It was a bad time to be affected
by nearly anything,
especially anything as dangerous
as loving a man, if you happened to be
a man yourself, ashamed and unable to explain
how your feelings could be torn apart
by something ritual and understated
as friendship between males.
Probably I talked too loud that year
and thought an extra minute
before I crossed my legs; probably
I chose a girl I didn't care about
and took her everywhere,
knowing I would dump her in the fall
as part of evening the score,
part of practicing the scorn
it was clear I was going to need
to get across this planet
of violent emotional addition
and subtraction. Looking back, I can see
that I came through
in the spastic, furtive, half-alive manner
of accident survivors. Fuck anyone
who says I could have done it
differently. Though now I find myself
returning to the scene
as if the pain I fled
were the only place that I had left to go;
as if my love, whatever kind it was, or is,
were still trapped beneath the wreckage
of that year,
and I was one of those angry firemen
having to go back into the burning house;
climbing a ladder
through the heavy smoke and acrid smell
of my own feelings,
as if they were the only
goddamn thing worth living for.
I'd rec Louis Gluck, Audre Lorde, Sharon Olds is a classic and I'm stuck on the books about her father dealing with cancer for reasons. For spoken word, check out this channel https://www.youtube.com/user/ButtonPoetry