1. |
The Moon for a Fire
01:02
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The Moon for a Fire
The moon
was a bitten fire,
disrobing in the forest.
Orange in yellow
like a burning circus tent huffs
billowing gasps in a lightless plain.
What scares me
is not going up in flames:
slouching, toned but tamed under some chair.
When the circus tent writhes
like a dancer rehearsing
it’s never been more free.
Just that internal light
swallowing the seating
scorching the grass
absorbing everything
transmuting every thing
into light.
Let me.
And then the darkness
that is healing and rest
--potent domicile--
take what’s left:
smoldering hints,
god-going smoke.
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2. |
A Single Star
02:33
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A Single Star
A single star
—one romantic said—
was all he needed.
But I –
I need constellations.
I don’t know why
my dreams differ
from yours,
but I won’t be your
ever-shining sun.
I’ll be reliable
as the moon,
gone traveling
dark new terrain,
then obscured
by clouds,
then fully present
and shining
for your gay gaze
and touch,
cheese
my moon skin’s
smooth texture.
This is me.
Think cats–
they have feelings
just like the moon
is always in the sky
but you can’t
always see it;
it doesn’t share its light
like you would like.
A single star isn’t me,
but that don’t stop me
from wishing
on a binary
star
that I could be
satisfied with only you.
But like Mizar and Alcor,
I need to be together
and a part of something
major.
Like the letters of a poem.
This poem you’ll never hear,
it’s the Horsehead Nebula,
it’s birthing billions;
this poem
you’ll never hear
is made up of letters,
unread letters,
burning like suns--
how they make a difference
even from far away,
even from lifetimes ago,
like the words
we never say
have a gravity
we might not believe.
Yesterday, Douglas,
I forgot to breathe
at the memory of you.
The moon, fell
slower than leaves, to remind me,
graceful and enchanting,
like watching a snow globe.
I wanna lay myself down with a creator,
while he basks
in my light and shade,
and that of our neighbors,
and neither of us
is a black hole
disappearing the energy
of others.
Yeah.
If I could
I’d live on this planet
in a house
with wooden floors,
a tin roof, and
windows for walls,
and there I’d lie
next to this someone
I haven’t yet met,
like the river
with the ocean
--like that eternal collision.
Like the river
lies with the ocean
and makes a fertile mess.
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3. |
A Few Haiku
00:51
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A Few Haiku
1.
River cheers itself,
a glowing, easeful struggle.
What have I to learn?
2.
We were practicing
our fondness for each other
to night’s sounds and stars.
3. (The Most Peacefully Dead Skunk)
Soft fur of a skunk,
gently coiled, freshly dead:
black rest in green plain.
4.
At night the pack comes
together, paw at my heart;
warmth is ours to make.
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4. |
Angels and Aliens
06:51
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Angels and Aliens
I told my landlady
I was from the US
And she believed me at first.
It explained a lot:
Why I was vegetarian,
Why I was impatient,
Why I studied too much.
But we both felt it,
when she realized I’m from
much further away from Resistencia, Chaco, Argentina
than just the USA.
I had tried to cook a soup, my first on Earth.
It was so bad that this 73-year-old woman
was given enough ganas to all at once
lift the heavy heavy pot in one hand and a shovel in the other. She said,
No hay ningún chorro que nos sacaría esto.
Qué es un chorro? I asked.
But she was so focused digging the hole that she didn’t notice the question.
Or maybe it was the day I moved in that she figured it out.
She said something else about cuidado and chorros that day, too.
I told her Si viene un chorro, tocaré mi trompeta.
I didn’t ask what the word meant then
because I knew that making conversation was
more important than making sense.
She cackled a knowing laugh.
It was the same kind of laugh every time she’d ask,
¿Por qué no me dejás cocinarte algo con carne?
She asked this about 3 times a day, and I was irritated after the first four months.
Señora, I told her, Jesús una vez me vino en un sueño y me dijo que no debo comer carne.
Oooo, she responded, ¿por qué no me dijiste antes?
It was a great lie, because she was a devout Catholic
and because I said it like I meant it.
Learning Spanish well is as hard as
learning to lie well. A practiced lier is efficient,
can seem close but keep his distance.
The more lies, the more chance the spider’s web
becomes obvious. But this lie was worth it for some peace.
To understand your culture, I’d stay up with her ‘til late.
I’d play music for her, ancient gospel church songs,
slow and muddy like the chocolate creamy dream
of the Río Paraná, like its water looks at night by the bridge lights.
Cross the bridge on foot at night. There’s nothing like it in all your galaxy.
Like the water, that deep, that moving, that irresistible, we would charlar,
And she’d tell me about her dead lover whom she
talks to sometimes still, like she talks to Jesus.
I told her I once heard my dead uncle’s voice: “I’m watchin’ out for ya.”
True story. And when I told her she said, Síii, eso pasa,
más y más. Hacen eso.
We were tight, me & the landlady, despite the lies.
In fact, one night she baked me a veggie casserole.
With ham hidden inside.
The next day I told her, Anoche no pude dormir para nada.
Toda la noche vomitando, con escalofríos y fiebre.
I said it like it was true.
Pusiste algo de animal?
Che! She said.
No puse nada de animal en tu comida.
I looked as sick as I could. I burped.
Bueno, un jamoncito, ¡no más!
I think she knew I was lying. I think she always knew.
I built so many webs and she sliced right through them.
My mission was to observe without loving anyone, but
I failed. And now I have to live loving someone I can’t see
because tomorrow I leave for home.
Tonight though was the anniversary mass of her husband’s passing.
Sitting in her kitchen afterwards, she reminisced.
Cada vez que viajabamos en el colectivo,
él miraba hacia abajo leyendo su libro.
Los músculos de su mejilla se tensaban.
Quizás por algo interesante que había leído .
Yo estaba... estaba tan agradecida de poder tocar esa mejilla cuando quisiera.
de conocer el corazón debajo de ella y la mente sobre ella.
Desearía poder soñar con él leyendo todas las noches.
Sus pestañas. Sus músculos tensándose en el colectivo.
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5. |
World AIDS Day 2016
01:52
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World AIDS Day 2016
There's a laughter strutting still
in the riverbed of my memory:
dreadlocks softly whip
like a river sloshes at its bank.
I see you, too, dressed in Africa,
foggy amber eyes
like spiral staircases
descending into the catacombs
of your library brain.
And there is a man,
sitting alone,
(tonight, Dec. 1, 2016)
in the Haight,
gazing at his cat's softly breathing body.
His thoughts of coughs
and Kaposi's sarcoma
flicker against erotic dalliances,
amorous play. He is the only one
from his generation to be alive.
A woman
rests
in the woods of the Ozarks
somewhere east of my home on the hill.
She is not alone.
She and her partner spoon:
the younger a listening vessel,
the older a storyteller,
reciting pain and sass,
community care,
and how during the night
another lover passed, and
everyone felt her lifting up
through the Victorian house's layers.
How her partner came down
without spoken notice,
knowing.
"We kissed on the lips
even if they were the
dying sort of sick.
Especially if they were."
I sit alone,
gay,
a content poet,
cooly dressed fabulous,
at the intersection of where we have been
and soon we'll be.
Breathing a bit more belly
at the thought of my whole humxn family,
pretty and whole, then
the lapping memory of
my history teacher's eyes
or the irrepressible bounce of his gait
and hair.
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6. |
Afterword
01:11
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If happiness is mental silence, then poems help quiet the world.
The poems here were written between from 2013-2017 in Seattle, Madurai and Fayetteville. The geography is less relevant though than the life changes: coming into a less conditional love for myself and moving into a place of responsibility for immigrants' lives. The biggest change though was experiencing the unexpected passing of two beloved family members and not denying the growth that this situation offered but rather integrating the opportunities this grief grew.
Ironside Photography took the photo on the back cover, and I'm also grateful to Stephen and all my caretakers who helped carry me through grief and into nature for healing, poetry and pictures.
I hope you get a moment's mental silence with this patchwork quilt, spanning four years and three cities.
Let me know what you think.
Stephen Coger
Queer Planet
Fayetteville, AR
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Queer Planet Fayetteville, Arkansas
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