April 2nd “I heard ‘pulse ox’ and then ‘coding’ and then

I heard “pulse ox” and then “coding” and then
Elliott batTzedek

timelessness
no
a lack of time and then
all tubed-up in a bed with a view
of Santa Catalina a place where no one
loved me so I lay alone down to
117 pounds so close to my goal
of not being
trays of hospital fare untouched, hunger
just another part of a body
I no longer felt.

As I had not felt myself not breathing, steroids
for the asthma in the distant past
of September’s fat jeans.

On the overnight shift, the one reserved
for gay nurses, fat nurses, old nurses, he
found me awake and shaking, refused to measure
vital signs on someone clearly not vital but asked
if I would like my back rubbed, skin
no one had touched in all the months Orange County
had been digesting me.

Lotion warmed in his palms spread as wide and
venturesome as God’s hands shaping clay, pushing
flesh while seeking life spark, he hummed only
soft syllables until I fell asleep enough to wake
to the morning on which I ate.

I could find him, say what you did, the gay gossip network
that would be more powerful than the 26 years
slipped past if not for this
hard fact:

it was 1985 in Southern California—
all my sources are on the AIDs quilt
which is itself out of style
and packed away.

Let The Translating Begin!

So, having finished my MFA in poetry, and taken a semester to rest, I’ll be going back to school in late June to work on the poetry in translation track of Drew’s MFA program. Yes, me, translating, even though I’ve pretty much utterly failed to succeed in learning any other language, ever, and the thought of coming up against things I can’t read makes me feel more than a little shaky. So why do it? Because the translators I’ve met through Drew are some of the smartest people I’ve ever met, because what they have to say about poetry pushes my thinking to the limit, because what I’ll learn about language will increase exponentially in the process. Because I’m a slut for being in over my head.

I’m searching for a poet or project, and on the recommendation of a friend found the Israeli Jewish poet Jean Shez, who describes herself as a lesbian writing about lesbian love and child abuse from a feminist perspective. Instantly intriguing me, of course. I’ve found a few of her poems on the web, and am trying to slog through a couple to get a sense of her as a writer. Here’s my first attempt, still missing a couple key words that my usual go-to folks for Hebrew questions couldn’t answer. First in Hebrew, then my working translation. Stay tuned, as I’ll be posting updates every time I manage to make a little more sense of her poem.

בַּלֵּילוֹת הָאַיָּלָה חוֹלֶמֶת עַל
נִמְרֹד גִּבּוֹר צַיִד
שֶׁתָּבוֹא כְּבָר לִתְקֹעַ חֵץ
בִּקְרָבַי
שֶׁתַּעֲמֹד פְּשׂוּק רַגְלַיִם מֵעַל
גּוּפָתִי הַדּוֹמֶמֶת
שֶׁתַּעֲרִיץ אֶת הַבָּשָׂר הַזֶה

In the evenings the fawn dreams
of Nimrad, the mighty hunter,
who will come to press an arrow
inside me
to straddle my unmoving body,
to lord over this meat

Poetry as survival – Rukeyser

I don’t believe that poetry can save the world. I do believe that the forces in us wish to share something of our experiences by turning it into something and giving it to somebody: that is poetry. That is some kind of saving thing, and as far as my life is concerned, poetry has saved me again and again.

Muriel Rukeyser

Thoughts on the Plural I

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what we mean when we say “I,” how that is a convenient, singular screen for something very complex and not at all singular. Is “I” who I am today, who I was yesterday, who I might be? My work self or home self or first date self? My online flirting self, or the me you actually go out with? I’m starting to struggle with this question in some of my writing—more on that soon. For now, these two great quotes from that poet of the personal plural, Walt Whitman.

from “Song of Myself” 51

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

from Days Books and Notebooks

What a history is folded, folded inward and inward again in the single word “I.”

Asking the Unasked Question About Gay Teen Suicide

Asking the Unasked Question About Gay Teen Suicide

Elliott batTzedek

On Coming Out Day, October 11, 1987, I was supposed to be in DC. Instead, I’d stayed in Madison, WI, and agreed to have my parents come for an awkward, difficult visit, spilling over with things not said.

That Sunday morning, after they’d left on Saturday night, I stood in my kitchen, my three-theophyllines-a-day in one hand, the whole bottle in the other. I took the bottle. I didn’t plan to, I hadn’t been contemplating suicide, I didn’t want to die. I got to the hospital, went through the horrible charcoal-swallowing, stomach pumping procedure, was put on suicide watch for 36 hours, and sent home.

No, I hadn’t been able to tell my parents I was a dyke, and yes, that was because of the intense homophobia I had always witnessed in my small home town. But I wasn’t a mess because I was lesbian. I loved being lesbian, loved everything about it, had no qualms, poured my whole self into the lesbian community. Seeing my parents made me fall apart because I’d been falling apart for months under the pressure of constant flashbacks of childhood sexual abuse. My mind was remembering images, my body remembering blows, my nose the smell of him. All of this was painful beyond my capacity to process, and I was desperate to just make it stop. Spending two days with my family increased that pain exponentially, and that morning I snapped.

Watching the coverage of gay teen suicide this fall, I am pushed back to that day. If I had died, would it have been spun as a “gay youth” suicide? If it were covered at all, I think it probably would have. And that would have been a lie about my life.

And because I know that would have been a lie, I wonder constantly about these teens. While I am generally dubious about any sort of statistical statement about what is suppressed, for the sake of argument I’m going with the stats as they stand – 1 in 10 kids is gay/queer/lesbian/gender queer/etc, but 6-8 out of 10 kids are victims of sexual abuse before the age of 18.

Who is counting the suicides among these 60-80% of children?

And of the gay kids who kill themselves, how many are also survivors of sexual abuse? Is bullying really THE issue here?

By which I mean this – I don’t doubt for a second that physical and psychological assault cause depression and can lead to suicidality. But what other assaults are we pretending not to see? How much easier is it to blame “bullies at school” than to really know what that child’s life was at home? Are we, yet again, looking for an easy exterior identified problem so we can as a culture go on lying about sexual abuse?

That is – is the current focus on “bullies” another form of Megan’s Law? Megan’s Law, and all similar laws, which unload the entire, vast, damage of sexual abuse of children onto the very small percentage of sexual predators who are unknown to their victims and “snatch them away from loving families.” Of course this happens, and of course it is horrible, but 90+% of sexual abuse of children is by an adult the child knows, usually is related to, and has been taught to trust. That’s a whole lot of social resources and fear-mongering for a “solution” which avoids completely the real problem.

The focus on “school bullies” is starting to feel the same to me in the way it is the evening news feed, the only explanation, the “we can fix this with laws and enforcement of laws” false surety. The single most dangerous place for a child is home; the most dangerous people are the adults given access to the child. When I count through everyone I know who has managed to kill themselves, or come damn close to it, every single one of them was sexually assaulted as a child, sometimes for years and years. No anti-bullying initiative in the world could have protected them.

And yes, some of them were also bullied, including me, my life in high school made miserable by my peers; bullies, after all, tend to repeatedly assault kids who are timid, who collapse in on themselves, who, in fact, act like prey. But what do you think would make a child, born whole, be acting like prey by high school, or middle school, or elementary school? Going after only the bullies who target vulnerable children is like blaming the vultures for eating the carcass of a deer killed by a hunter.

But it is so much easier to blame the vultures, who live out there somewhere, than to blame the hunters who live in our homes. And as long as we’re looking out there somewhere, and not inside the home, the sexual abuse of the majority of our children will continue to be accepted and acceptable, and children and teens will go on killing themselves or acting out their abuse on themselves and other children.

So, do we go for the feel-good media blitz of the 10% (if that) solution, or do we really, finally, try to save all our children?

September nowhere near poem a day

If

if one woman told the truth about her life, the world

if I told the truth, the world would

but I is world’s restraint

or rather the illusion of I
or rather the necessity of the illusion of I

if we told about our life
I would split open

if one woman told the truth

the world, open

Ina Poem #3 First Night

Ok, I’m clearly not managing a poem a day, and what I’m writing about is Ina. So I’ll just keep these coming as fast as I can, hoping the whole story will find itself told before my 2nd packet deadline.

First Night

It was late when she came up.
Last night she would have said dark
but Ina would never again
confuse night with dark.

Heading down the hill she realized
that going home would give her away.
The coal dust that protected her secret in the mine
would betray the second she set foot in her house.
So she grunted and stuck her hand to the right,
parting from the men on the path.

The woods had been her shelter many times before,
the roots of a tree upended as good a wind shelter
as the shack her family’d had since her father’s death.

When she’d return tomorrow as grimy as she’d left
no one would give a rat’s ass. Miners knew everything
there was to know about making do and they’d all been
a scrawny boy without a second set of clothes.

Poem a day #21 They shut me up in prose

Another first line taken from Emily Dickinson. You can find her original, with excellent manuscript notes, here. Her poem keeps haunting me; it could have been written yesterday, and makes Emily real to me in a way she hadn’t been up til now.

__________________________________

They shut me up in prose

They shut me up in prose
With essay—gagged—theory
bogging my mind—my voice
stilled by easy praise

With syllables—I picked locks
with lines—unsyntaxed—
freedom—nothing
left to lose

A single sound—ah or
unh— a window
A single word—treason
an open portal—to I

Poem a day #9 Lesson of the Cicada

Lesson of the Cicada

Growing
is hard work.
Not just expanding
but changing.

Completely.

Anything that cannot grow
enough, anything
that restricts,
must be peeled off.

Even your own skin must split,
crack open, give way,
if you must force
a way out. Even if it slices,
even if this leaves you raw
and wet and vulnerable.

And after this struggle
look back. How little it is,
what had confined you.
How fragile. How empty.
How nothing, now,
without you.

Poem a Day #3 – Asthma

again, thanks to Janet Aalfs for her amazing workshop, with this writing prompt:the source of my breath is a pathway through fear, is the courage I share

Asthma

source of breath is source of breath
is source is breath is breath is breath
is source, breath, source, breath breath breath
is the source but breath is source and breathing
is sore sore once sore always sore sore once
more sore again breath again sore breath
poor breath poor breath sore breath
breath at the source is sore poor breath
poor breathing poor sore poor source
poor breath at the source is sore

poor breath breath wanting breath wanting
breath wanting to breathe breathe breath
poor breath sore breath breath wanting
wanting breath not to be sore at the source
wanting breath wanting breath wanting
breathing breath wanting breathing
wanting not to be sore
breath wanting wanting waiting wanting
breath wanting waiting not to be sore
breath wanting waiting wanting
to soar

Oh breath! Oh breath! Oh breath!
Oh wanting breath oh wanting wanting
wanting to soar time to soar wanting
time to soar past time past time
past time to soar always wanting
always past time time passes breath
sore breath poor breath breath wanting
to soar breath waiting to soar breath
wanting, waiting, wanting, waiting
waiting past time waiting for time
breath waiting for time
to soar

wanting, wanting, wanting at the source
wanting at the source, breath wanting wanting
wanting at the source to soar
breath wanting at the source the source
is wanting breath the source of breath
is wanting to soar wanting to soar
is the source of breath so much wanting
wanting at the source to soar wanting
breath breath wanting wanting breath
breath wanting wanting breath wanting
breath breath wanting wanting
at the source
wanting
at the source
wanting
at the source
breath wanting, wanting,
wanting
wanting at the source
to soar.