Archives for posts with tag: Poetry

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1.

It is dawn again. Dawn in the desert. The smell of the earth and the dew. The sounds of the chirruping birds.

The pervasive silence of the long black night coming to an end.

My night blindness is getting worse. I sat on my spectacles so am guessing, largely… where the keys are.

The days get hotter and hotter. The sun beating down relentlessly. The lawn toasting, the dogs roasting, the mountain tightens around us as it bakes.

Hot days in Dorset/ hot days in Malibu. Hot days on the sleepy ocean, lapping around me.

Coffee, editing, read the daily news. It sure looks bad in Syria.

We cruise down to the beach and play in the surf. We are tangled at night in the white linen sheets. We read side by side in silence. A familiar smell, a beating heart, the man I want but do not need.

He asks what we are. Nothing. We are nothing, I say. He struggles with ‘what it means’ to love another man.

My struggle is over. I am too old to give love a second chance.

He sees me thinking. He will read this and tell me to talk to him as if talking will solve everything. Just shut up and make love to me. Stop asking me what it means. Don’t expect me to know anything. Work it out yourself.

I don’t really care.

For all the terrible, meaningless cruelty I am still besotted with him. And, like the parent of a missing child, I wonder daily about his safety. Even though he is undeserving of my worry and considers my concern an intrusion..

I continue to fret about him, however violently I have tried to expunge the memory.

2.

I am mostly happy. I know you don’t believe me. I know that you think I am lying to you about my happiness.

Well, if you could see me… if you were the one laying beside me… you would understand.

Island Wall. The tiny cottage there. It was enough. It was perfect.

Now I lay my head down and it is enough.

Perhaps, you say, you could be happier? How much happier?

Facelifts, apparently, make women happier.

Then I realize that you are confusing your own thoughts about getting older with what you think happiness is. How can anyone be that old and be happy? How can anyone have so little and be happy?

Then, you try convincing me that I should want to be young again. Forgetting, of course, that I was never young. Always old. Always.

I have a spectacular ability to get on with what I have and be happy with it.

I don’t want more. Even in the jail. I found comfort. I found solace.

So, you think I am unhappy because you do not know what happiness is.

Could you imagine a happy person killing themselves? I could.

Come death.

3.

I had another dream about the DA. This time my thumb was in her mouth. She was sucking my thumb. Pressed down on her tongue. Like a calf. Her big brown eyes looking up at me.

Whenever I dream about her, her cheap gold jewelry tinkles like ice cubes in a crystal glass.

4.

I am writing my screenplay. Finishing it. I am enjoying a social life. I let the man beside me massage my neck.

I understand that I am in love with struggle. Struggle is sustenance.  It feeds me everything I need to live. I am alive when I fight to survive. I am alive when I feel myself emerge victorious. Even though you could not imagine what I experience as victory.

I dream that I am walking by my primary school in Whitstable. The black, tarmac playground is always empty. The lawn is green. The classrooms, I assume, are full.

I remember the boy who ate coal, the butcher’s son. He looked like a pink pig. Fat, pink, bespectacled. He drowned you know. You knew that… didn’t you? When he couldn’t take it anymore.

5.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives.

Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea.

And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

Do I ever think about him?  No, not really.  He is gone now.  How can I tell?  Because I am listening to love songs and I just get the vaguest memory of him.

Here are some pictures of men I have explored:

This morning I lay in bed battling the resentments.  I made coffee and called the Katonah small claims court and had the forms faxed over to start my proceedings against him.  Quite without knowing why I called Joan and she told me that she had heard from him and he was hurt.  So, my heart melted and I threw away the forms.  By doing so I kinda threw in the towel.  Threw away the resentment and let him go.

I really don’t want to hurt him.  I really don’t.

I sent him a short letter and that was that.

All I wanted from the very beginning was to let him go like a mouse that you find in the house.  You don’t worry what happens to the mouse..you hope it survives but it’s really up to the mouse.

It’s going to take time to stop thinking about him.  I’m realistic about it.

So I wrote this:

Jake,

Listen. I know I have hurt you. I know that you will probably never forgive me.

I am not going to try getting the money. I want you to enjoy the friends I introduced you to and I hope that you can profit from those contacts from which you were meant to profit.

I hope you will one day understand why I couldn’t continue with our friendship. That I really loved you.

I am truly sorry for everything. For my part in this disaster.

I don’t know if I can stop writing about this on my blog. I will try.

Of course I want you to be happy, to find love. You will, as I have said a million times, make someone a wonderful husband.

The reason that I am writing this is because you told Joan how hurt you were and I hate that. In the abstract you can be hurt badly but in reality I don’t want you to suffer any more than you already are.

The fantasy and the reality of Jake.

You will be pleased to hear that during my last CNN appearance all I could see on the other side of the camera was your face.

It ruined it. I’m not doing that again.

I hope you understand better now why i decided why we can’t be friends or have contact.

You reacted so badly to my thoughtful note. I wasn’t trying to be cruel but I just don’t want half measures in my life.

So, now I have dropped a bomb on you in my blog and I don’t know how to make it right. You can find solace in the fact that you are weekly in the top ten most read blogs subjects on my page.

Remember, in the words of The Bard:

“love is not love that alters when alteration finds nor bends to the remover to remove”

This has been hard for both of us.

Let’s see if we can both forgive and forget.

Duncan

The house has been redecorated so I can sell it, yet it is more beautiful so I don’t want to sell it.

I have been having long, stressful conversations with the realtor and the bank.   I pray, I stay in consultation with my peers.

A woman I was at school with wrote to me recently and reminded me of a poem I had written when I was eleven.  I think it’s rather good.  Good enough to share with you all.

There’s a hole in my mind/

And I do feel inclined/

to cover it with leaves/

so the hands of thieves/

cannot touch it.

It’s quite a telling little poem written by a mad little boy drowning not waving.

The past days have been deadly confusing. Is this what happens when grown ups fall in love?  Is that it?  It’s really hard to write convincingly about love because the symptoms of love remind me of the symptoms of addiction, of drugs, of hangovers.  It is all so damned intense.

Who doesn’t want to fall in love and feel all these things?

I cannot move-does love cause this geriatric immobility?  I cannot think.  I am frozen to the spot – then in the next, immediate moment I am running around making important decisions that I should have made months ago.  I an revitalized, confident, hopeful.

I decided to sell my art collection.  I called a gallery owner.  He will come and assess the art I keep in Hollywood then on the tenth of February (when the renters leave Malibu) he will assess the rest.

I can’t wait to see it all go.  Every last bit of it.  I am tired of all this STUFF.  Too many things in too many places, too many plates, too many forks, too many vases, too many paintings, etchings and far too many sheets and pillowcases.  Too many rooms for too many guests that I no longer feel like entertaining because I want to bury myself in him.

Now I am eyeing the furniture and the silver and want to liquefy it all.  The odd thing is-if I get the correct price for everything I can be debt free, run my little farm, get off the grid and beholden to no one.   That’s what the goats and the chickens are for: to clear the brush and lay eggs.  Of course, some of you don’t like the idea of me eating the goats but that’s what we do when we live off the land.

Isn’t that the dream we all have?

When I am in Hollywood I lay in my bed listening to my neighbors screaming at one another.   They scream the most disgusting, violent things.  He tells her to ‘shut the fuck up’, to ‘get away’ from him.  He tells her that she is a ‘fucking bitch’.  Then they repeatedly slam all the doors in the apartment and she gets deathly quiet and I worry he may have killed her.

Whenever I see them in the lobby they behave as if we don’t know.  As if none of us who live near them can hear.  As if we are deaf to insult, blind to knives in rotten flesh.

No one/someone/no one/someone/none?  For almost everyone I know the choice is obvious.  My mother scoffs at people who have no one.  She would rather be in any relationship, however bad, than come home to an empty house.  I would rather come home to an empty house than any half measure.  Loveless, passionless half measures.  No, that’s not for me.

If he is unavailable?  What of that?  What if he had someone else?

Ben Wishaw and Hugh D’Ancy are performing in a play called Pride in NYC and my new friend Jake Bauman went to see it.  He texted me during the interval that Hugh fucked Ben.  I knew what he was thinking.

I read the reviews.  The comment.  The predictable gay outrage because Ben won’t make his fucking mind up about what he is.  Good for him.

You know that I am writing this for you?  You know that after I finish writing this I will hear your voice and I will be complete?

Jake Bauman Cam Jake bauman canm 3 Jake bauman Cam 2 Jake bauman

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A strange thing happens when I fall in love.  I open the door to one man and a rowdy gang of other men try busting in behind him.  As soon as I am brave enough to declare my love every ideal man in the world makes himself available.   It takes the constitution of a saint to just say, “I’m sorry but I am dating someone right now.  I can’t give you my number, I am flattered but NO!”

So, after breakfast at Cecconi with the Brits in LA I am dog walking up Robertson in my cap and coat and a fine young man stops me and we make small talk about his dog and then we talk about mine and I am wondering at what point he will ask that question.  The question that leads to another meeting-or worse..a hook up.

I am thinking to myself how I might politely turn him down.   How falsely I will smile as I tell him how flattered I am and how hard I am going to kick myself when I walk away without giving him my number.

The truth is-I am falling in love and that may come as surprise to some of you because I have not been writing about it nor have I mentioned him particularly like that.  I am falling in love with a swarthy New Yorker who makes my heart sing whenever I am with him.  Yet, I fear, he can never be the man.  The great dark man.

I can’t concentrate.  I can’t make sense of my day when I know he is in NYC waiting for me.  I tell him that I love him like a dog.  I am not IN love because that is too soon.  I love him like the little dog.

The problem with falling in love is falling out of love.  For as suddenly as I love him I can also no longer love him and the train rolls on by.

“Into love, and out again, Thus I went, and thus I go. Spare your voice, and hold your pen — Well and bitterly I know All the songs were ever sung, All the words were ever said; Could it be, when I was young, Some one dropped me on my head?”

Dorothy Parker