Queer
Thought I’d make a thread for LGBTQIA+ poetry. Since “LGBTQIA+“ is a mouthful, I’ve called it Queer.
You don’t have to identify as any of the letters of the rainbow alphabet to post here, but poems should focus on “queerness”, which I’m defining as sex and gender exploration/identities outside the conventional. Men and women (gay, straight, or whatever) who enjoy cross dressing, for instance.
My only rule is that you leave anti-queer shit out of this thread.
Anonymous
You’d need a heart of stone not to be moved by Wilde’s expansive epistolary, To the Depths. Cruelly, Bosie deprived the world of so many Wilde rivers. Not literally, but he died in Reading Gaol.
I don’t talk much about Langston Hughes, but he’s a poet whose work I love. It combines a simple free verse structure with the rhythms and style of jazz music. Jazz fans may like his writing as much as anyone.
Like a lot of queer poets of his era, he had to hide a lot about himself. Especially being a poet of colour as well, having to deal with racism on top of homophobia.
Cafe: 3 AM by Langston Hughes
Detectives from the vice squad
with weary sadistic eyes
spotting fairies.
Degenerates,
some folks say.
But God, Nature,
or somebody
made them that way.
Police lady or Lesbian
over there?
Where?
https://www.out.com/entertainment/today-gay-history/2014/02/01/today-gay-history-great-‘was-langston-gay’-debate?amp
https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2014/jazz-poetry-langston-hughes
Man, it's been a crazy year. I'm trans, on hormones with buds growing, and putting out fires left and right.
I'm wanting to change the direction of my work to match my feelings today, and I just don't know how to do it.
Like, a new forum? A new form? I don't think I have to change my work really, it's natural at this point, but I want these poems to reach a massive audience that includes DUP.
It's tough to figure out, but I'm posting a couple if new ones if anyone is interested in critiquing, or helping me out with an audience.
Being Trans is normal for me, and odd for everyone else around. I've always felt like an alien. Being a punk queen is wonderful. Thicc skin required~
You've gotta stomp heads in when tou
need to, look mean when tou need to, and do it with style.
Just remember what Kamina said:
Believe in the me that believes in you
I'm wanting to change the direction of my work to match my feelings today, and I just don't know how to do it.
Like, a new forum? A new form? I don't think I have to change my work really, it's natural at this point, but I want these poems to reach a massive audience that includes DUP.
It's tough to figure out, but I'm posting a couple if new ones if anyone is interested in critiquing, or helping me out with an audience.
Being Trans is normal for me, and odd for everyone else around. I've always felt like an alien. Being a punk queen is wonderful. Thicc skin required~
You've gotta stomp heads in when tou
need to, look mean when tou need to, and do it with style.
Just remember what Kamina said:
Believe in the me that believes in you
Love Poem to a Butch Woman
by Deborah A. Miranda
This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion
the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom
in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle—I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.
by Deborah A. Miranda
This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion
the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom
in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle—I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
by Ocean Vuong
Tell me it was for the hunger
& nothing less. For hunger is to give
the body what it knows
it cannot keep. That this amber light
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to your chest.
You, drowning
between my arms —
stay.
You, pushing your body
into the river
only to be left
with yourself —
stay.
I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after
backhanding
mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel
in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls.
And so I learned that a man, in climax, was the closest thing
to surrender.
Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade.
Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn.
Say autumn despite the green
in your eyes. Beauty despite
daylight. Say you’d kill for it. Unbreakable dawn
mounting in your throat.
My thrashing beneath you
like a sparrow stunned
with falling.
Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
I wanted to disappear — so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky — to hold every flying & falling at once.
Say amen. Say amend.
Say yes. Say yes
anyway.
In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed.
In the life before this one, you could tell
two people were in love
because when they drove the pickup
over the bridge, their wings
would grow back just in time.
Some days I am still inside the pickup.
Some days I keep waiting.
It’s not too late. Our heads haloed
with gnats & summer too early
to leave any marks.
Your hand under my shirt as static
intensifies on the radio.
Your other hand pointing
your daddy’s revolver
to the sky. Stars falling one
by one in the cross hairs.
This means I won’t be
afraid if we’re already
here. Already more
than skin can hold. That a body
beside a body
must make a field
full of ticking. That your name
is only the sound of clocks
being set back another hour
& morning
finds our clothes
on your mother’s front porch, shed
like week-old lilies.
by Ocean Vuong
Tell me it was for the hunger
& nothing less. For hunger is to give
the body what it knows
it cannot keep. That this amber light
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to your chest.
You, drowning
between my arms —
stay.
You, pushing your body
into the river
only to be left
with yourself —
stay.
I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after
backhanding
mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel
in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls.
And so I learned that a man, in climax, was the closest thing
to surrender.
Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade.
Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn.
Say autumn despite the green
in your eyes. Beauty despite
daylight. Say you’d kill for it. Unbreakable dawn
mounting in your throat.
My thrashing beneath you
like a sparrow stunned
with falling.
Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
I wanted to disappear — so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky — to hold every flying & falling at once.
Say amen. Say amend.
Say yes. Say yes
anyway.
In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed.
In the life before this one, you could tell
two people were in love
because when they drove the pickup
over the bridge, their wings
would grow back just in time.
Some days I am still inside the pickup.
Some days I keep waiting.
It’s not too late. Our heads haloed
with gnats & summer too early
to leave any marks.
Your hand under my shirt as static
intensifies on the radio.
Your other hand pointing
your daddy’s revolver
to the sky. Stars falling one
by one in the cross hairs.
This means I won’t be
afraid if we’re already
here. Already more
than skin can hold. That a body
beside a body
must make a field
full of ticking. That your name
is only the sound of clocks
being set back another hour
& morning
finds our clothes
on your mother’s front porch, shed
like week-old lilies.
Northern_Soul said:“I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven”
… I mean, that line alone. 👌🏻
I mean, I know it's considered a epistolary novel but I can't deny the poetic language Ocean uses, his way of obliterating not being heard is extraordinary especially belonging to the queer community as well as his exploration of race, class and masculinity too, I absolutely love this book
.... I guess it's safe to say i'm a fan. 🤣
… I mean, that line alone. 👌🏻
I mean, I know it's considered a epistolary novel but I can't deny the poetic language Ocean uses, his way of obliterating not being heard is extraordinary especially belonging to the queer community as well as his exploration of race, class and masculinity too, I absolutely love this book
.... I guess it's safe to say i'm a fan. 🤣
_feral said:
.... safe to say i'm a fan. 🤣
No…. Really?!… *shocked hissing* 🤣
I was reading a bit more into this poem and saw the description “ this poem is as much about the power of telling one's own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard.” and that’s the most validating shit I’ve read all week.
.... safe to say i'm a fan. 🤣
No…. Really?!… *shocked hissing* 🤣
I was reading a bit more into this poem and saw the description “ this poem is as much about the power of telling one's own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard.” and that’s the most validating shit I’ve read all week.
… not today, Satan. Not today.
Anyway, back on track.
i love you to the moon & (by Chen Chen)
not back, let’s not come back, let’s go by the speed of
queer zest & stay up
there & get ourselves a little
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden
with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean
i was already moonlighting
as an online moonologist
most weekends, so this is the immensely
logical next step, are you
packing your bags yet, don’t forget your
sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear
our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter,
queerer moon gravity, let’s love each other
(so good) on the moon, let’s love
the moon
on the moon
Anyway, back on track.
i love you to the moon & (by Chen Chen)
not back, let’s not come back, let’s go by the speed of
queer zest & stay up
there & get ourselves a little
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden
with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean
i was already moonlighting
as an online moonologist
most weekends, so this is the immensely
logical next step, are you
packing your bags yet, don’t forget your
sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear
our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter,
queerer moon gravity, let’s love each other
(so good) on the moon, let’s love
the moon
on the moon
The Hug by Thom Gunn (1929 to 2004)
It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
Half of the night with our old friend
Who'd showed us in the end
To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.
I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
Your instep to my heel,
My shoulder-blades against your chest.
It was not sex, but I could feel
The whole strength of your body set,
Or braced, to mine,
And locking me to you
As if we were still twenty-two
When our grand passion had not yet
Become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all
Of intervening time and place.
I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.
It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
Half of the night with our old friend
Who'd showed us in the end
To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.
I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
Your instep to my heel,
My shoulder-blades against your chest.
It was not sex, but I could feel
The whole strength of your body set,
Or braced, to mine,
And locking me to you
As if we were still twenty-two
When our grand passion had not yet
Become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all
Of intervening time and place.
I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.
