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TODAY’S GAY WISDOM

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This entry was also this day’s Gay Wisdom email.
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This entry was also this day’s Gay Wisdom email.
| / / | | / /THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY
TODAY’S GAY WISDOM
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This entry was also this day’s Gay Wisdom email.
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So much has been written about the Gay Bomb the pentagon was(?) working on.
Ruben Bolling of Tom the Dancing Bug proves once again how insightful he can be.
The last few hours have presented some crazy synchronicity I thought I’d share. But it involves some storytelling. And since I don’t usually feature a lot of storytelling I thought it might be good for the blog.
This morning Pete and I spent a few hours at two Farmers Markets. He’d been gone for a few days and it was great to have him home and beside me and just enjoying such a beautiful day in the city. We got home a few hours ago and I started roasting some garlic scape I picked up at the market and started reading the Sunday New York Times while Pete snoozed on the couch and finished reading Armistead Maupin’s latest book (which he enjoyed very much thank you very much snippy Washington Post reviewer). Earlier I’d been reading some from a two dollar edition of Aristotle I picked up down on Calvert County yesterday. My friend Kim and I had driven down for the day to the birthday party of a friend of her’s and stopped into a book sale.
So, this morning I began reading the Aristotle book — the introduction anyway, and I’d been reading about Aristotle and Alexander and the Greeks and Persians. It was in keeping with a strange and wonderful Achilles jag I’ve been in of late. It started a few months back when I attended a reading of three Irish poets at the National Geographic. The reading was lovely and I especially enjoyed the work of Michael Longley, a living Irish poetic legend who was new to me (don’t you love it when you discover someone really good and you have the delight to immerse yourself?). One of the poems he recited, "Ceasefire" involved the interaction between Achilles and King Priam in the Iliad. The recent movie Troy (not surprisingly) destroyed the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus. A reading of the text shows they were lovers. Achilles kills Hector to avenge the death of his lover. He then makes arrangements to spend eternity with him… it’s all very clear in the Iliad. So, Longley’s poem — which is quite moving — describes the point when old King Priam comes into the enemy’s camp, to Achilles, (who remember has just killed Priam’s son Hector) and begs him for the body of his son Hector. Achilles agrees to give King Priam Hector’s body and then they sit for a meal together. I loved Longley’s poem very much. But I feel it lacked any real sense for the loss that Achilles had suffered at losing Patroclus. In Longley’s poem [read it here], Achilles is shown as a standup guy for giving Priam Hector’s body. But that’s about it. One would have to know the rest of the story to read into it the depth of Achilles’ clear loss as he too sits at the table with the father of the man who took his greatest love away.
So, ever since that reading and hearing that poem I’ve had in the back of my head the desire to write a poem about that very thing. Perhaps a revisiting of that scene in a way that balances the wound and loss. I’m not saying that Priam was trying to erase anything. I think it’s just not his element and perhaps he wasn’t looking for it.
Then about a week ago the wonderful poet Jeff Mann submitted a few poems for the Fall issue of White Crane on "Lovers." One of them is about Achilles and Patroclus although it takes place before the battle where Patroclus dies. Reading the poem sort of revived the task I’d set before myself from Longley’s poem. A few days later I woke up in the middle of the night and tossing and turning I thought of a few lines that were clearly about this idea. I reached for paper and pen, which is always beside the bed, and I wrote the lines down. The next morning I read them again and they were in my head for the rest of the day.
Later Pete and I went down to Eastern Market to see what we could see and ran into some lovely apricot-colored yarrow for the garden. The color was just beautiful and different from the yellow colored yarrow you usually see. We picked up a nice bit of it to put in the front garden and placed it in its new place when we got home.
Later that night I went online and started looking up information about yarrow and was stunned to find that the scientific name for yarrow. It’s achillea millefolium. There’s Achilles again. Something’s going on.
Back to today and I’m reading Aristotle and it’s welling up the Greeks and the lovers and the wonderful day we spent out in the beautiful weather and with my love of life and how much I’ve missed him the last few days. I went and wrote the following:
Shall I make us Greek
Because they recorded the names of people like us?
Patrocles and Achilles?
Alexander and Haphaestion?
Hadrian and Antinous?
Ignoring their slaves and empire?
Shall I invoke the names of whispers?
The Lovers that are clear to us
Beyond the burned letters and evasions?
David and Jonathan?
Whitman and Doyle?
Dali and Lorca?Every choice will involve a fight with our enemies
Who have always held erasers in their hands
To wipe away any trace of us.Will there be a trace of us?
Must there be a haunting line in every sweet day
That ages hence no one will remember us
Or remember that men like us knew this kind of love?I should bow and genuflect
At the mere ability to have these days,
To have these moments of truth and gentleness,
I cannot risk the historic,
Or imagine truth as some grander gesture.The simple act of our loving
Is the simplest action of self love.
And then I left it alone. I left it on the screen and went back to reading the paper. The war, the local news, and then a story from New Jersey [read it here] over the weekend. About a boy who paid, like many of his other friends, to have pictures of a kiss, just like everyone else, in his yearbook. And the magic marker and the erasure. And the superintendent claiming she stands for "tolerance" when she orders teachers, (TEACHERS! Teachers who are to "teach"!) to take the stink of black magic markers to the same image on the same page in over 300 copies of a high school yearbook and erase the offending image of two boys who love each other and share a kiss.
I put the story aside and after I’ve finished reading the paper I carry it over to show it to Pete who’s in the living room and I pass the laptop with the poem on it. And there it is today. Achilles and Patroclus and Andre and David and yes, Pete and me.
A nice bit of running commentary on this…
As a poet and writer living and working in DC I like to pay attention to writers like me who may have experienced many of the same things I have. What I mean is I’m conscious that my work (hopefully) has something to say about the place I live in that is in conversation with others who’ve written here as well. That’s not to say that all my poetry is place-specific, but a lot of it is. I become more and more conscious of the poets who have called Washington home.
Yesterday I picked up my partner from work and we went to have drinks at a little bar in Logan Square (we were enticed by some very crazy martinis they’re famous for at this place). While we sat there on comfy couches by the front of the bar I pulled out my trusty copy of Walt Whitman and started reading into Pete’s ears. Just loud enough for him to read…
I am indifferent to my own songs—I am to
go with him I love, and he is to go
with me,
It is to be enough for each of us that we are
together—We never separate again.
And we had our delicious fruity drinks and enjoyed being connected to a poet we both love and admire.
I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers.
We would’ve danced if the drinks hadn’t been so powerful. Now, I’m sure there were a lot of folks wondering what we were doing there in this bar reading from a book. But Whitman deserves to be read aloud in all places and especially in the Washington he loved so much (the city he probably would’ve been buried in had he not suffered a stroke and had to move closer to family in Camden). So, I take Whitman with me in a lot of places and I become more familiar with the Whitman-specific things in DC (thanks to Kim Roberts, Martin Murry and many writers).
I also think of Sterling Brown because he lived in Brookland and I live in Brookland. I sometimes wonder how he experienced these same sidewalks and blocks in our corner of DC. I think that it’s good to remember you weren’t the first to experience life where you live. Whenever I think it might be odd to be writing about my life or the place I live I recall those who came before me. Those who wrote and to whom I’m endebted for populating my historical mind with precedents of verse and imagery.
Which brings me to Ed Cox. Yesterday I was given a delightful gift by Kim Roberts of an old cover of the Washington Review featuring a great photograph of Cox (by Jesse Winch) on the cover. Cox was part of the Mass Transit poetry scene of the 1970s.
I never knew Ed Cox and didn’t move to DC until 10 years after his death. I first heard about Cox when I picked up a copy of his Collected Poems put out by Paycock Press. I was stunned by his poems.
Along with Beth Joselow, Michael Lally, & Terence Winch, Cox was a key figure in that circle that created Some Of Us Press. As a partner in bringing a small poetry press to life there’s some connection there too. A group of poets wanting to bring the work of their fellows to life. His connection to a circle of friends, literary and artistic reminds me of the work I do with Bo on White Crane.
So, discovering a poet like Ed Cox, who made a life here and was so involved and committed to the city and its people and to living an out life as a Gay man in the 1970s is helpful to me. A poet who was kind and thoughtful and a good listener. These are all good things to aspire to.
If you don’t know who Ed Cox is or aren’t familiar with his work, we are again endebted to the amazing work of Kim Roberts, whose Beltway Poetry site serves as repository of the brain of DC Poetic history. There are a lot of amazing pieces there including a remembrance by Richard McCann, and an old interview of Ed Cox by E. Ethelbert Miller which was originally in the old Washington Review (where the above Cox photo by Jesse Winch comes from). In his gorgeous piece, McCann remembers his old friend as having "a gift for listening deeply, with a patient and even profound attentiveness." This gift, McCann observes, can be found throughout Cox’s poetry.
I am you,
as you are me in the misery of these avenues
and streets. Cuddle the bricks, whisper
beneath the great map of stars.
It seems fitting to remember the work of Ed Cox on this Gay Pride Month.
If I recall the phrase correctly it’s "never complain, never explain."
…and whoever said that never published a magazine.
Many of you have been contacting us complaining (rightfully) that you haven’t received the spring issue yet.
That would be because it is two months late.
As I have explained to those who have contacted us, what little hair I have left is now greatly diminished as a result. So here’s what happened:
When last we spoke of this, the printer we had been using since Toby was publisher, in Texas, simply disappeared <POOF!> just before we put out the winter issue, which was also late because of this unforeseen complication.
And as you may also have noticed with the winter issue, we’re looking a lot prettier, a lot sleeker and a lot more colorful. That’s the good part of finding a new printer.
The bad part of finding a new printer is we have a whole set of new specifications and picture formats and guidelines and requirements that we’ve never had before. There’s a reason we’re prettier and sleeker and more colorful. Our newfound sophistication comes at a price.
It’s called "a learning curve." And we took this one a little too fast.
And, boy…did it throw us for a loop! We really thought we had it down… pictures all in the right format, everything off to the printers in a timely manner. What could possibly go wrong?!
The answer is: Everything and anything.
That’s when we discovered that some of our mail from the printer was being shunted into our spam file. A whole week and a half had gone by before we discovered that the printer wasn’t happy with what we’d sent and we needed to make some changes.
This added yet another few days to the mess…and by the time we got things back to the printers we’d lost our place in the printing line-up. We had to go to the end of the line. Which meant that we had to wait yet another two weeks before the issue was printed…and then another few days to get it to the distribution folks. And there you have it.
Or you don’t…and as a result, you, our devoted and patient subscribers, haven’t seen the spectacular, cinemascopic issue on Movies with it’s cast of thousands.
Unless, of course, you have…because I am assured that the mailing went out this week and you should have the spring issue, pictured above and excerpted here…soon…very very soon.
And we are very very sorry. We are working to make sure it never happens again. And as an apology, we are extending every subscription by an issue. So if your subscription ended with the Summer issue this year, it will now end with the fall issue…etc.
And thank you for your support….and understanding.
Thursday night, May 31st, a nice contingent of White Crane folks descended on the Lambda Literary Awards held at the Fashion Institute in New York City. These events are always a lot of fun as they afford an opportunity to see a lot of writers and artists whose work has meant so much. Dan drove up from with partner Pete and went with Bo and his partner Bill Foote.
When we got to F.I.T. we were delighted to meet up with Toby Johnson and Kip Dollar, in from San Antonio. Toby was a finalist in the Anthology category for the White Crane Books project he and Steve Berman edited, Charmed Lives. Berman appeared a few minutes later and we had a great time talking with each other, catching up (such is the nature of internet publishing
and editing, that one relishes the opportunity to just look at each other in the face and be in one’s presence!) The winner, alas, was not our book, but Love, Bourbon Street, edited by Greg Herren and his partner, Paul J. Willis. Next year…All: A James Broughton Reader!
Other friends at the reception included Jeff Mann, author of the amazing collection of poetry, On The Tongue (reviewed in the Summer ’07 of White Crane) and the scorching A History of Barbed Wire, winner in the category of Gay Erotica.
We had a great interview with Jeff last year when his last book Loving Mountains, Loving Men came out. You can read an excerpt of that interview online.
Perry Brass, author of Angel Lust, and Substance of God and regular contributor to White Crane was there as well and it’s always good to see Perry.
Tom Spanbauer, who was nominated for his latest novel Now Is The Hour was there from Portland with mural painter, theatre technician/designer, tattoo artist, and permaculture specialist, Sage Ricci. It was wonderful to meet them in person after the interview (online excerpt) Bo had with Tom in White Crane a few years ago.
Frequent contributor and friend Stuart Timmons was a double winner last night with the Lambda Literary Awards for GLBT Non Fiction and GLBT Arts going to the book he co-wrote with Lillian Faderman Gay L.A. Since Stuart wasn’t able to attend the ceremonies Bo and I had the good fortune of stepping out of the hall and calling him to give him the good news after each win. The book is really a wonder and it’s a well-deserved double win.
It was also great to see Gregg Shapiro, a wonderful writer and poet we’ve featured in White Crane at the ceremony. Gregg has a book of poetry coming out next year and we had a chance to catch up with him as he’s on a whirlwind tour of the East Coast doing some music reporting and generally being a charm in every circle he enters.
It was great to see many legends at the event too, like Martin Duberman, author of the brilliant biography of Lincoln Kirstein, The Worlds of Lincoln Kirstein, was honored with the Pioneer Award at the gala event, and the brilliant Alison Bechdel, of Dykes To Watch Out For and author of Lesbian Memoir/Biography Lammy winner, Fun Home, to name just a few. Bechdel got to present a Pioneer Award to Marijane Meaker, author lesbian pulp novels in the fifties, to groundbreaking young adult books like Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack! to her amazing memoir Highsmith, A Romance of the 1950’s, which is about her relationship with Patricia Highsmith. She just turned 80.
The winner in the Spirituality category was Michael McColly’s The After Death Room (Soft Skull Press) which is reviewed in the Summer 2007 issue of White Crane. We will have an interview with the author in an upcoming issue.
The After-Death Room is McColly’s chronicle of the events that took him from the day in a Chicago clinic when he heard the news that so affected his life, to the many steps he took to reconcile himself to the diagnosis, to becoming a world traveled AIDS activist and journalist.
Jim Elledge’s A History of My Tattoo won in the Gay Poetry category.
A really amazing Canadian Broadcasting report on Iran’s Gay Community. Or perhaps more accurately Gay Life in Iran. Hidden and subversive and overcoming. Really gripping and amazing for its depiction of the repression and the revolutionary activist community in Iran. This is a must see report. These are people who know and experience repression and yet are demanding the right to live their lives.
We only wish the report had made clear that this isn’t unique to Iran. That many other countries are repressive. That a lot of these restrictions exist in many states in the United States — where the grand majority of states have taken the time to make their animus toward Gay citizens crystal clear. The life-threatening repression exists in Saudi Arabia and in Iraq and in every Sharia-controlled country in the middle east. We’d love to hear about exceptions…but don’t know of any.
This is nothing short of amazing.
A witty and very honest little animated film about AIDS and prevention and leading a good healthy gay life. Survival and overcoming are the central themes. This French PSA is the work of filmmaker Wilfredo Brimo.
Wish I had seen something like this when I was coming out. It’s both funny and realistic.
Brilliant and touching too.
Watch it and enjoy!.
TODAY’S GAY WISDOM – David & Jonathan
Many of our stories can be found in the great traditions. One of the oldest stories in existence, Gilgamesh & Enkidu is a love story of men. Another is the great love of David & Jonathan found in the Hebrew Tanakh, known as the Old Testament to Christians. The story of David & Jonathan has been retold for centuries. One gorgeous retelling is that of the contemporary poet Steven Schecter, who wrote a beautiful book-length poem titled David & Jonathan: An Epic Poem of Love & Power in Ancient Israel.
Today’s Gay Wisdom is an excerpt from the poem in which Schecter retells the exchange between the lovers told in two verses at the end of the 20th chapter of the book of Samuel. In the book of Samuel the story is recounted as:
41 And as soon as the lad was gone, David arose out of a place toward the South, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed down three times; and they kissed one another, and wept one with another, until David exceeded.
41 ‘Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of HaShem, saying: HaShem shall be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed, for ever.’
Schecter’s retelling fills in the unmistakable details of this meeting of lovers:
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David hears Jonathan’s lonely footsteps
and waits no longer.
Rises.
At once rises.
A diver breaking the water’s surface.
A prisoner his bonds.
A wail its sorrow.
And falls.
Three times rises and falls
until the full-length lover has turned
to a howl in the dust.
Jonathan stares like a bronze,
surprised at the derelict hands
encircling his feet.
They knew it could come to this,
would come,
David more than he,
but knowing the future is sometimes
like knowing the past,
the battle dates mere numbers
to reveal a tale of hope and ruin;
one is therefore well advised to sound one’s heart
before entering history.
Even a priest listens
before dashing blood against the altar.
But not David,
who picks up people like war campaigns
and figured it all as the calculus of God’s grace.
Jonathan does not approve,
has never approved,
has more than once told him he misreads his own heart,
but has come to appreciate
that his lover, like a caterpillar,
only learns by shedding his mistakes;
and so ought not to be surprised.
And yet is.
The man’s pain is so great
it cracks the ground on which he kneels
and runs the fault line to Jonathan’s heart
that weeps, weeps,
for this poor tumbleweed of love.
It is all he can do to pull the man up.
His cries screech against the air,
are gone,
again rise up,
a mad assault on a sponge.
Jonathan hugs David close,
his lips on his neck, in his ear,
murmuring the prayer for ex-lovers:
"God Almighty, let him not fall by the wayside,
not rot in despair,
not spit on hope.
May he remember life is long,
and that I love him;"
and with the hand that caressed him to the tailbone
rubbed the prayer into his bones.
Quiet limped into David’s body.
His sobs grew less and turned to tears
that flowed over the prince’s shoulders,
wet, warm watermarks of love
that mingled with kisses;
and the kisses soon drew forth an embrace,
and one embrace drew forth another,
until David,
as tradition would later have it,
exceeded.
And then Jonathan sent him off
in peace as they had sworn,
tongue to tongue
and seed to seed
as God was their witness.
And when David could no longer be seen,
Jonathan also turned his back
and returned to the city of kings.from Stephen Schecter’s David & Jonathan published by Robert Davies Publishing.
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