In going through a box of papers I came a cross a pile of old old poems written in late 60’s, early 70’s. So having no shame I’m resurrecting them with minimal editing. I was using a cheaper, yellow copy for many of these – the paper hasn’t yellowed with age. Enjoy 🙂 This is the last resurrected poem for this Easter.
Caught Hard 1971
1
dull dark day dawns
disparately clinging to the night clouds
little mists of mares
floating up from the budding honeysuckle
I am fighting so hard
for an empty room
for this trophy of glass
it can’t last
it mustn’t last
this fighting alone
on the dew wet grass
so close to home
by the freshly born
morning in some other
question box corner standing
sunrise boxing ring
so you’ve come to see the fight
by being here
you are the fight
another shadow boxing affair
reflecting from my bottles
reflecting on my walls
fighting for every word you speak
I am dying softly
the everyday death we each die
wandering from payday to payday
paying enough for the right
to live when I die
paying to keep fighting
in only the perfect surroundings
soundings & singers
paying & dying & fighting
fighting off the laughter
that I feel exploding
each inner pondering like a sledge hammer
smashing each unhappy stone
restoring sensation of pleasure
white in the night
feeling close & coming to an end
caught hard up in the air
without a handful go much
just loose strings of stings
& other nasty things
to keep me from giving in
to consuming everything in one last bite
2
I’ve heard the hangman many times today
if I’m not a icicle
why do I feel so cold
swinging in the summer sun
swinging to the hangman’s hot jest
he’s trying hard to melt me down
so I can be sold in bits & pieces
3
many times
screaming inside my skull
he cannot bear to see me moving
to any other taunt but his
up the stairs
up the stairs
no one cares
just the hangman
filling his pockets with meltings
I am free to fall
I am free to get up
I am free
but feel so lost
if I am not a fossil
why do I feel so old
if I am not a fetus
why do I feel so unborn
tiny & afraid
waiting in the summer sun
for someone to touch
if I am not wise
why do I feel so foolish
in these words
I am found by so few
yet still lost to so many
I am the end of time
drizzled with smiling sunlight
in some early morning suddenness
if I am not dynamite
why do I feel like exploding
every time I think of you
the sun can’t seem to melt into the middle
yet I feel myself slipping away
up the stairs
up the stairs
away from the sun
that needs me melted
before we can start winter again
4
the hangman has seen me crying
the hangman has been free dying
to reach out to cut my rope and end
this dangling all day in the sun
no confession
no confessor for me
I cannot make sense of either
though both are bursting to
functions all around
me like falling rain
as I near the end of the rope
postitive negative postitive negative
polarized into neither
loving nor hating
wanting nor having
afraid of saying
so many confessional hidden sins
that everyone realizes about me
but care too much to punish me for
This is one of few pieces that went from the above rough draft to a more ‘polished’ version that was included in my book Distant Music. All those ‘d’s at the start are a bit much 🙂 I do love the overt masculinity of the piece as I box to prove my maleness as a poet. Poetry being considered un-masculine despite the fact that the poetry we studied in high school was 99% written by men.
I was buttoning it up to somehow contain my sexuality as well. Queers don’t talk about boxing but movie stars. ‘reflecting from my bottles’ a clear reference to my growing alcoholism – another of the way I was dealing with sexuality – drown it. 
A gay acquaintance at the time hung himself which may have lead to the hangman imagery. Working to pay the rent was like a noose too, the strangle hold of fear.
The version that made it into print is equally as meandering but is also more focused. The alliteration remains 🙂 The revised version does have a sense of ending though. Today there is no rope, or bottle, needed to to keep me standing.
Caught Hard 1976
1
dull dark day
disparately dawns
clinging coldly
to the night clouds
little mists of mares
floating doggedly
over murky dreams
I am fighting hard
fighting so hard
for an empty room
a glass trophy
it can’t last
it mustn’t last
this fighting alone
on the dew-wet grass
so close to home
with the freshly born
morning sunrise
just by being here
to see the fight
you become the fight
another shadow-boxing affair
reflected from bottles
reflecting cross walls
fighting for every word you speak
I am dying
that everyday death
we each die
fighting in only
the best of surroundings
soundings & singers
all dying in fighting
fighting off the laughter
I feel exploding
each inner pondering
like a sledge hammer
smashing each happy stone
returning sensations
of pleasure
white in the night
feeling close
while coming to an end
caught hard
up in the air
without a sandful of much
just loose strings of stings
of other satisfied things
to keep me from giving in
to consuming everything
in one final bite
2
I’ve heard the hangman
many times today
if I’m not a icicle
why do I feel so cold
a-sway in the summer sun
swinging peacefully
to the hangman’s hot breath
he’s trying to melt me down
so I can be sold in
bits & pieces
3
many times
screaming inside
he cannot bear
to have me sway
to any breath
but his
up the stairs
up the stairs
no one cares
except for the hangman
filling pockets
with meltings
I am free to fall
I am free to get up
I am free
but feel so lost
if I am not a fossil
why do I feel so old
if I am not reincarnated
why do I feel so unborn
tiny & afraid
waiting in the summer sun
for someone to touch
if I am not wise
why do I feel so foolish
out of these words
am I the end of time
drizzled with smiling sun
in your early morning suddenness
if I am not dynamite
why do I feel like fighting
every time I think of you
the sun cannot melt
through to the middle
yet I feel myself slipping away
up the stairs
up the stairs
away from the sun
that needs me melted
so we can start winter
4
the hangman has seen me crying
the hangman has been free dying
to reach out & cut the rope
to end my all-day dangling
if I am not a hanged man
why do my feet
never seem to touch the ground
if there is no rope
around my neck
what holds me in place
keeping me from falling down
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