Poetry Friday (Slight Return) - No Exit

No Exit

Here at the center of the universe
there is no movement; in the higher spheres,
however, all things turn from bad to worse,
and he is impotent who interferes.

But you and I are here, perfect, in stasis:
the Unmoved Movers, the Pleroma, who've
eternities in which no moment passes.
(Asleep, you stir. Awake, I cannot move.)

I cannot make you come, I cannot make
you come to bed again with me. In pain,
stagnant with longing, I will hold daybreak
away: Verweile doch, Du bist so schön!

-- and win a victory I did not intend:
This night, too short, too long, will never end.

(1983-1984)

I still haven't found the remaining poems I meant to post, so I'm putting this one up. It's the last poem I completed. If the missing folder ever turns up, I'll post those poems, but for now ...

Poetry Friday (Slight Return) - No Exit

No Exit

Here at the center of the universe
there is no movement; in the higher spheres,
however, all things turn from bad to worse,
and he is impotent who interferes.

But you and I are here, perfect, in stasis:
the Unmoved Movers, the Pleroma, who've
eternities in which no moment passes.
(Asleep, you stir. Awake, I cannot move.)

I cannot make you come, I cannot make
you come to bed again with me. In pain,
stagnant with longing, I will hold daybreak
away: Verweile doch, Du bist so schön!

-- and win a victory I did not intend:
This night, too short, too long, will never end.

(1983-1984)

I still haven't found the remaining poems I meant to post, so I'm putting this one up. It's the last poem I completed. If the missing folder ever turns up, I'll post those poems, but for now ...

Poetry Friday - Great Oz

You are not, nor were meant to be, Great Oz.
On such a scale, of course, you count for nothing.
Still it must mean something that because
of you I've known such sorrow and self-loathing.
Years will pass, of course they will erase
the pain somewhat. Of course. No doubt
in time I'll lose the memory of your face.
It's not a thing I care to do without,
but time goes on. You'll dwindle till you're small,
then smaller, till you're lost to sight. I'm sure
I'll wonder why I wrote these lines at all --
how unimportant, actually, you were.
And when I write my memoirs, I will laugh,
and sum you all up in a paragraph.

-----
Memoirs? Hah. Not bloody likely.
I think it was about this poem that a friend, on reading it, asked me in surprise, "Duncan -- do you want me to tell you how ambivalent that poem is?" Which let me know that I'd achieved what I was trying to do in it. I still wonder sometimes about his reaction, though: Are poems not allowed to be this ambivalent?
Anyway, it dates from 1979 or 1980.

Poetry Friday - Great Oz

You are not, nor were meant to be, Great Oz.
On such a scale, of course, you count for nothing.
Still it must mean something that because
of you I've known such sorrow and self-loathing.
Years will pass, of course they will erase
the pain somewhat. Of course. No doubt
in time I'll lose the memory of your face.
It's not a thing I care to do without,
but time goes on. You'll dwindle till you're small,
then smaller, till you're lost to sight. I'm sure
I'll wonder why I wrote these lines at all --
how unimportant, actually, you were.
And when I write my memoirs, I will laugh,
and sum you all up in a paragraph.

-----
Memoirs? Hah. Not bloody likely.
I think it was about this poem that a friend, on reading it, asked me in surprise, "Duncan -- do you want me to tell you how ambivalent that poem is?" Which let me know that I'd achieved what I was trying to do in it. I still wonder sometimes about his reaction, though: Are poems not allowed to be this ambivalent?
Anyway, it dates from 1979 or 1980.

Poetry Friday - A sonnet is a diving bell

A sonnet is a diving bell in which
my ego safely may descend into
my id: a dark and silent region rich
with life, a home to things I never knew
existed -- creatures with voracious jaws
but little else, shy darting wisps too nervous
to observe, and all subject to laws
ignored by us who live above the surface.
Hermetically sealed in against immense
and crushing pressure, I must temper my
ascent in order to avoid the bends,
or like my sunken cousins I might die.
And yet repeatedly I brave that pressure,
hoping to return with sunken treasure.

---
From 1979 or so, with a nod to Adrienne Rich, whose "Diving into the Wreck" gave me the idea.

Poetry Friday - A sonnet is a diving bell

A sonnet is a diving bell in which
my ego safely may descend into
my id: a dark and silent region rich
with life, a home to things I never knew
existed -- creatures with voracious jaws
but little else, shy darting wisps too nervous
to observe, and all subject to laws
ignored by us who live above the surface.
Hermetically sealed in against immense
and crushing pressure, I must temper my
ascent in order to avoid the bends,
or like my sunken cousins I might die.
And yet repeatedly I brave that pressure,
hoping to return with sunken treasure.

---
From 1979 or so, with a nod to Adrienne Rich, whose "Diving into the Wreck" gave me the idea.

Poetry Friday - Don't ask dumb questions ...

Don't ask dumb questions, kid: get into bed!
I'll help you with your clothes. The sheets are fresh
as virgin foolscap laid, their blankness spread
to take impressions of the word made flesh.
Hold up! the point we're driving at we'll come
to soon. I know these postures are absurd,
but sometimes artists have to pose, and some
of ours may give rise to the flesh made word.
When words collide, when poets rub together,
they generate between them heat and light:
the clash of symbols, straining self-tied tethers,
the pseudo-war of wills where Might makes Write.
The pen (hee, hee!) is mightier than the sword:
the heart is pierced, but never ever bored.
----

Though I've never been to a poetry slam, nor much wanted to, I've been to my share of poetry readings. One night in the early 1980s (I think) I went to an open mic reading in the dorm where I work, and listened to a cute boy trying to be raunchy and tough to a girl in his poem. I recognized the manner all too well, but it gave me an idea. That sort of aggressive come-on has never been my style, but I thought it would be fun to turn it around, and put a male on the receiving end, so to speak, of the aggression. I'm not sure I succeeded, because it quickly turned into something else, as you can see; but I think it is fun, and a welcome change from the laments of unrequited love that I and other poets have ground out in excessive numbers.

Anyway, at the next reading, the same cute boy was in the group, and I had this poem with me, ready to share with the world or that small part of it. I didn't say that he'd inspired it, nor did I single him out by eye contact as I read it, but it seemed to me that he squirmed uncomfortably during the reading. (The same way boys reacted when I read this one.) I'd like to think he recognized the manner I was parodying, but it was probably just homophobia. And no, nothing came of it. This poem was prophetic in that regard.

Poetry Friday - Don't ask dumb questions ...

Don't ask dumb questions, kid: get into bed!
I'll help you with your clothes. The sheets are fresh
as virgin foolscap laid, their blankness spread
to take impressions of the word made flesh.
Hold up! the point we're driving at we'll come
to soon. I know these postures are absurd,
but sometimes artists have to pose, and some
of ours may give rise to the flesh made word.
When words collide, when poets rub together,
they generate between them heat and light:
the clash of symbols, straining self-tied tethers,
the pseudo-war of wills where Might makes Write.
The pen (hee, hee!) is mightier than the sword:
the heart is pierced, but never ever bored.
----

Though I've never been to a poetry slam, nor much wanted to, I've been to my share of poetry readings. One night in the early 1980s (I think) I went to an open mic reading in the dorm where I work, and listened to a cute boy trying to be raunchy and tough to a girl in his poem. I recognized the manner all too well, but it gave me an idea. That sort of aggressive come-on has never been my style, but I thought it would be fun to turn it around, and put a male on the receiving end, so to speak, of the aggression. I'm not sure I succeeded, because it quickly turned into something else, as you can see; but I think it is fun, and a welcome change from the laments of unrequited love that I and other poets have ground out in excessive numbers.

Anyway, at the next reading, the same cute boy was in the group, and I had this poem with me, ready to share with the world or that small part of it. I didn't say that he'd inspired it, nor did I single him out by eye contact as I read it, but it seemed to me that he squirmed uncomfortably during the reading. (The same way boys reacted when I read this one.) I'd like to think he recognized the manner I was parodying, but it was probably just homophobia. And no, nothing came of it. This poem was prophetic in that regard.

Poetry Friday - resonance

resonance

you shake me, man, you make me lie awake,
you make me walk the streets at night until
i stagger sideways and my eyeballs ache.
it's useless staying home. i can't sit still.
i turn the pages but my eyes won't read.
i put on records but my ears won't hear.
my head is hollowed out but not by speed.
my brain's wide open and my need is clear.
the light is on and though it burns my eyes
i wouldn't turn it off if i knew how.
without the glare i couldn't recognize
the need that ties me tighter than a vow.
there's joy in the extremity you bring.
i vibrate to you like a singing string.

May 25, 1980

Poetry Friday - resonance

resonance

you shake me, man, you make me lie awake,
you make me walk the streets at night until
i stagger sideways and my eyeballs ache.
it's useless staying home. i can't sit still.
i turn the pages but my eyes won't read.
i put on records but my ears won't hear.
my head is hollowed out but not by speed.
my brain's wide open and my need is clear.
the light is on and though it burns my eyes
i wouldn't turn it off if i knew how.
without the glare i couldn't recognize
the need that ties me tighter than a vow.
there's joy in the extremity you bring.
i vibrate to you like a singing string.

May 25, 1980

Poetry Friday -- Voodoo Doll

This poem is not unlike a voodoo doll.
See how I seek the form: I croon and coo
caressingly to it, to you. I call
it by your name. I think it looks like you.

How do you like your likeness? Is it apt?
Not flattering, unfair perhaps a hint
of malice in the lines? I have you trapped
at last: in ink, perhaps someday in print.

I knead my memories of you into the page --
such memories I have of you, my friend! --
long-simmered in my helplessness and rage,
which until now I lacked the means to end.

No matter where you go, you'll feel the twinge,
the pinch, the bite, the burn of my revenge.

---
From sometime in the late 70s. I'd been reading Sylvia Plath again, and was trying to get some of her fury into my own work. But it wasn't completely sincere -- more trying on the anger, to see if saying these things would let me know that I felt them. I found I didn't, and the poem ends up being hollow because of it. Still, I think it turned out well technically, and maybe some other person might find that it expressed his or her feelings more than it expressed mine.

Poetry Friday -- Voodoo Doll

This poem is not unlike a voodoo doll.
See how I seek the form: I croon and coo
caressingly to it, to you. I call
it by your name. I think it looks like you.

How do you like your likeness? Is it apt?
Not flattering, unfair perhaps a hint
of malice in the lines? I have you trapped
at last: in ink, perhaps someday in print.

I knead my memories of you into the page --
such memories I have of you, my friend! --
long-simmered in my helplessness and rage,
which until now I lacked the means to end.

No matter where you go, you'll feel the twinge,
the pinch, the bite, the burn of my revenge.

---
From sometime in the late 70s. I'd been reading Sylvia Plath again, and was trying to get some of her fury into my own work. But it wasn't completely sincere -- more trying on the anger, to see if saying these things would let me know that I felt them. I found I didn't, and the poem ends up being hollow because of it. Still, I think it turned out well technically, and maybe some other person might find that it expressed his or her feelings more than it expressed mine.

Poetry Friday - Common Ground

common ground

i root thru sex in darkness as a mole
avoids the surface of the earth, where eye
must squint and ear be cocked for danger: hole
is safety, earth is warmth, and worm is my
companion as i grub with nose and claw
for sustenance, snuffling, wordless, unthinking
save in backbrain, shunning who would draw
me up to daylight, struggling and blinking.
where sunlight reaches is no home for me.
i want the depths, where heat provides a glow
that doesn't hurt my eyes, by which i see
where i had long forgotten i could go:
a meeting place where tunnels intersect,
a common ground where you and i connect.

--
Sometime around 1980, I think -- it was published in Ian Young's anthology Son of the Male Muse by the Crossing Press in 1982.

Poetry Friday - Common Ground

common ground

i root thru sex in darkness as a mole
avoids the surface of the earth, where eye
must squint and ear be cocked for danger: hole
is safety, earth is warmth, and worm is my
companion as i grub with nose and claw
for sustenance, snuffling, wordless, unthinking
save in backbrain, shunning who would draw
me up to daylight, struggling and blinking.
where sunlight reaches is no home for me.
i want the depths, where heat provides a glow
that doesn't hurt my eyes, by which i see
where i had long forgotten i could go:
a meeting place where tunnels intersect,
a common ground where you and i connect.

--
Sometime around 1980, I think -- it was published in Ian Young's anthology Son of the Male Muse by the Crossing Press in 1982.

Poetry Friday - My former lovers

My former lovers all are gaining weight
or going bald, it seems. Time lurches on,
they fall in step; but I procrastinate,
as usual. Just call me Dorian.
It can't be from clean living or pure thoughts.
I've seen the sun come up uncounted times
with sundry friends and strangers, sans culottes
when possible, after unnatural crimes.
Sometimes I scan my mirrored face for signs
of wear and tear, at least -- it hasn't been
all party, heaven knows. The only lines
so far are when I smile. What does that mean?
Not that I'm in a hurry, for it seems
I've drifted through my life wrapped up in dreams.

----
From sometime in the early Eighties. Since then, of course, I've fallen into step with Time myself.

Poetry Friday - My former lovers

My former lovers all are gaining weight
or going bald, it seems. Time lurches on,
they fall in step; but I procrastinate,
as usual. Just call me Dorian.
It can't be from clean living or pure thoughts.
I've seen the sun come up uncounted times
with sundry friends and strangers, sans culottes
when possible, after unnatural crimes.
Sometimes I scan my mirrored face for signs
of wear and tear, at least -- it hasn't been
all party, heaven knows. The only lines
so far are when I smile. What does that mean?
Not that I'm in a hurry, for it seems
I've drifted through my life wrapped up in dreams.

----
From sometime in the early Eighties. Since then, of course, I've fallen into step with Time myself.

Poetry Friday - The Cavaliers (Toronto)

The Cavaliers (Toronto)

This hothouse forces odd loves into bloom:
the smoke, the noise, the semi-darkness stunt
the growth of shoots cramped by too little room
to start with. Each survivor is a runt.
Some mutants do thrive in this ambience --
their native habitat? Others, which sprout
better in less outré environments --
one's backyard garden, say -- get crowded out.
Though I admire the lush flamboyant growth
of tropic loves, I also want to praise
the homely ones. There should be room for both,
exotic blossoms and perennial gays.
My love for you's the hardiest of weeds:
a bit of earth and sky are all it needs.

------
Written during my first visit to Toronto in 1980. With only a week to find others like myself, I attended a gay men's discussion group; visited the office of The Body Politic, Canada's great gay-liberation magazine of the period; shopped in Glad Day Bookstore; and went to a few bars. My favorite was The Barn, a leather bar with a good DJ, and a friendlier tone than other leather bars I've been to, but I also liked The Cavaliers, a piano bar with (as I recall -- it has been 29 years since I was there!) potted plants for decoration. I was staying in an older YMCA building in the center of the city, which turned out to be cruisy (surprise!), but I wasn't quite sure how to relate to it. Though I didn't get laid during that visit, I still enjoyed the city and wished I could have moved there.

"The Cavaliers (Toronto)" has, I realize, an uncomfortably familiar pre-Stonewall literary vibe, of the gay bar as a stifling, unhealthy milieu. I confess my sin, but I still think there's enough truth in it to sustain the poem, and I still like the small twists I put in. The Cavalier drew an older crowd anyway, and I think that even today many gay men cultivate a sort of demi-monde sensibility in their gathering places. Others just ignore the dominant mood and use the bars or other sites to get what they want, and that's good too. I've also come to realize how important bars have been as community sites on their own terms. After nearly thirty years, though, this poem is now a period piece anyway.

Poetry Friday - The Cavaliers (Toronto)

The Cavaliers (Toronto)

This hothouse forces odd loves into bloom:
the smoke, the noise, the semi-darkness stunt
the growth of shoots cramped by too little room
to start with. Each survivor is a runt.
Some mutants do thrive in this ambience --
their native habitat? Others, which sprout
better in less outré environments --
one's backyard garden, say -- get crowded out.
Though I admire the lush flamboyant growth
of tropic loves, I also want to praise
the homely ones. There should be room for both,
exotic blossoms and perennial gays.
My love for you's the hardiest of weeds:
a bit of earth and sky are all it needs.

------
Written during my first visit to Toronto in 1980. With only a week to find others like myself, I attended a gay men's discussion group; visited the office of The Body Politic, Canada's great gay-liberation magazine of the period; shopped in Glad Day Bookstore; and went to a few bars. My favorite was The Barn, a leather bar with a good DJ, and a friendlier tone than other leather bars I've been to, but I also liked The Cavaliers, a piano bar with (as I recall -- it has been 29 years since I was there!) potted plants for decoration. I was staying in an older YMCA building in the center of the city, which turned out to be cruisy (surprise!), but I wasn't quite sure how to relate to it. Though I didn't get laid during that visit, I still enjoyed the city and wished I could have moved there.

"The Cavaliers (Toronto)" has, I realize, an uncomfortably familiar pre-Stonewall literary vibe, of the gay bar as a stifling, unhealthy milieu. I confess my sin, but I still think there's enough truth in it to sustain the poem, and I still like the small twists I put in. The Cavalier drew an older crowd anyway, and I think that even today many gay men cultivate a sort of demi-monde sensibility in their gathering places. Others just ignore the dominant mood and use the bars or other sites to get what they want, and that's good too. I've also come to realize how important bars have been as community sites on their own terms. After nearly thirty years, though, this poem is now a period piece anyway.

Poetry Friday - If I neglect ...

If I neglect, in these my recollections,
the more pleasant side of our relations,
if I leave out the moments of affection,
of respect, of warmth, in my narration,
if all too often it appears the bad
outweighs the good in my account of you,
if I forget the good times we have had,
it's just because they were so bloody few!
And anyhow I'd rather not profane
those good times, since they were so rare, by mention;
but lest I seem to be so wracked by pain
that they have never come to my attention,
it may, therefore, be timely to proclaim:
though years go by, the Muse remains the same.

May 22, 1979

And still does, thirty years later.

Poetry Friday - If I neglect ...

If I neglect, in these my recollections,
the more pleasant side of our relations,
if I leave out the moments of affection,
of respect, of warmth, in my narration,
if all too often it appears the bad
outweighs the good in my account of you,
if I forget the good times we have had,
it's just because they were so bloody few!
And anyhow I'd rather not profane
those good times, since they were so rare, by mention;
but lest I seem to be so wracked by pain
that they have never come to my attention,
it may, therefore, be timely to proclaim:
though years go by, the Muse remains the same.

May 22, 1979

And still does, thirty years later.