Queer

Northern_Soul said:☝️ that is so razor sharp. You almost don’t want to breathe in the second stanza, because the descriptions are so immediate. Not a poet I’d heard of before, so thank you.

❤️

Yeah, he was new to me as well. One of the poets of The Movement, the 1950s school where they were trying to write clearer, more relatable verse.

This isn’t a poem, but I’ve always loved this expression of same-sex desire in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, it has a sweetness to it in spite or because of its explicitness:

“All the men got they eyes glued to Shug's bosom. I got my eyes glued there too. I feel my nipples harden under my dress. My little button sort of perk up too. Shug, I say to her in my mind, Girl, you looks like a real good time, the Good Lord knows you do."

Those of you who love Vuong may enjoy some of the tribute poems to him in one of Classic Corner Comps!

https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/11513/#492462

Casted_Runes said:This isn’t a poem, but I’ve always loved this expression of same-sex desire in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, it has a sweetness to it in spite or because of its explicitness:

“All the men got they eyes glued to Shug's bosom. I got my eyes glued there too. I feel my nipples harden under my dress. My little button sort of perk up too. Shug, I say to her in my mind, Girl, you looks like a real good time, the Good Lord knows you do."

That’s beautiful, and I’m so glad you’ve picked something with a bit of age to it.

I was watching re-runs of “Vicious” (short TV comedy sit-com starring Derek Jacobi and Ian McKellen… totally hilarious) on Amazon Prime earlier with the other half and he said “…y’know it’s really nice to be reminded that there are older gay people” and it’s actually a really lovely observation, because it proves it’s been around since time immemorial, however closeted. It’s important to remember.

So thanks for the book reference. Kinda hooked on to a thought I was quietly processing earlier. 🙂

Northern_Soul said:

That’s beautiful, and I’m so glad you’ve picked something with a bit of age to it.

I was watching re-runs of “Vicious” (short TV comedy sit-com starring Derek Jacobi and Ian McKellen… totally hilarious) on Amazon Prime earlier with the other half and he said “…y’know it’s really nice to be reminded that there are older gay people” and it’s actually a really lovely observation, because it proves it’s been around since time immemorial, however closeted. It’s important to remember.

So thanks for the book reference. Kinda hooked on to a thought I was quietly processing earlier. 🙂

I’d completely forgotten about Vicious! Cheers for the reminder.

SENCES 8
IS GREAT TO WATCH

The Lost Pardner by Charles Badger Clark (1883 to 1957)

I ride alone and hate the boys I meet.
Today, some way, their laughin' hurts me so.
I hate the steady sun that glares, and glares!
The bird songs make me sore.
I seem the only thing on earth that cares
Cause Al ain’t here no more!
And him so strong, and yet so quick he died,
And after year on year
When we had always trailed it side by side,
He went—and left me here!
We loved each other in the way men do
And never spoke about it, Al and me,
But we both knowed, and knowin' it so true
Was more than any woman’s kiss could be.
What is there out beyond the last divide?
Seems like that country must be cold and dim.
He’d miss this sunny range he used to ride,
And he’d miss me, the same as I do him.
It’s no use thinkin'—all I’d think or say
Could never make it clear.
Out that dim trail that only leads one way
He’s gone—and left me here!
The range is empty and the trails are blind,
And I don’t seem but half myself today.
I wait to hear him ridin' up behind
And feel his knee rub mine the good old way.

Poem about My Rights (by June Jordan)

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
alone
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that        
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
words
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
me
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
myself
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
be-
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
cars
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life

Caitlyn Siehl, “Her, Her, Her”

She is a year ago.
She is the ache in the empty,
the first time you changed your mind
and the last time you were sorry about it.
She is a city sleeping beside you,
warm and vast and familiar, streetlights
yawning and stretching,
and you have never. You have never.
You have never loved someone like this.
She is your first stomach ache.
Your first panic attack and your
favorite cold shower.
A mountain is moving somewhere
inside of you, and her handprints are all over it.
Here. Here. Here, you love her.
In the fractured morning, full of
too tired and too sad, she is the first
foot that leaves the bed.
She is the fight in you, the winning
and the losing battle
floating like a shipwreck in your chest.
When they ask you what your favorite moment is,
You will say Her.
You will always say Her.

☝️ thank you for sharing this. Indeed.

The Colour Of His Hair

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.


(A. E. Housman)