Boy. Fifty Dollars.
The muse is running a little bit dry lately, I think. I wanted to do something for Bastille Day (happy Bastille Day!), but that may have to wait until I’m done work, because right now my mind is thoroughly numbed and my time is thoroughly occupied. So, once again, just kind of tossing up a poem from April… probably the most aggravating form I’ve ever done (iambic pentameter pantoum/terza rima combination), and one of the heaviest topics. Oy.
Boy. Fifty Dollars.
(a secret pantoum)
I paid him cash, but only just to talk
and tell of how he fell into this fate,
all curbside-sale and jangly tight-jean walk.
With no one out on Market Street this late,
he tells of how he fell into this fate,
thrown out, no shoes, the day he turned fifteen
with no one, out on Market Street, quite late.
He names the shelter where he’d first been seen:
thrown out, no shoes, the day he turned fifteen
(his father caught him, beat him, chased him out).
He names the shelter where he’d first been seen,
where men, in whispers, soothed despair and doubt.
“Your father caught you, beat you, chased you out?
Come walk with us, lay down that troubled head.”
The men, in whispers, soothed despair and doubt.
And better that than end up raped and dead.
He walked with them, laid down his troubled head,
wrapped up in arms and legs that pushed and thrust,
(but better that than end up raped and dead)
cried out the first few times, but learned to trust
the men whose arms and legs would push and thrust
his body out in unforgiving night.
Cried out the first few weeks, but learned to trust
the other boys on pavement, cool and white.
His body sold to unforgiving night,
to touch its face and slowly fade away,
like other boys on pavement, cool and white
he told himself, it’s business anyway.
He touched my face and turned to fade away,
so curbside-sale and jangly tight-jean walk.
I told myself, it’s business anyway.
I paid him cash. But only just to talk.
calliopespen said,
July 14, 2009 at 12:33 pm
This form is perfect for this verse.
Brought tears to my eyes.
This is a first-class poem.
poeticgrin said,
July 14, 2009 at 9:54 pm
Oh man….
I’m no stranger to iambic pentameter (one of my favorites) and terza rima (my absolute least favorite, in that mine always sound sophomoric), but what you’ve done here is magnificent and becomes my favorite poem of yours that I’ve read. Bold (which is what I like) and dark.
You’ve made it so the lines that are repeating become haunting in the repetition – serving the form well. Only a master poet could create this.
Are you submitting this anywhere? Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide? Ganymede? It needs to end up in the Best Gay Poetry anthology.
You’ve GOT to publish this.
poeticgrin said,
July 14, 2009 at 10:02 pm
I’m serious. Publish this.
calliopespen said,
July 14, 2009 at 10:46 pm
I agree with Bryan. You really must publish this. It is phenomenal. It’s been sticking with me since I read it, and I can’t say that very often. Do it:)
SandyCarlson said,
July 15, 2009 at 7:38 am
Perfect. Well done. The lines haunt as the story haunts. And the understatement is perfect. What a sad tale. Thanks.
Joseph Harker said,
July 15, 2009 at 10:00 am
Many thanks, Sandy!
Danielle and Bryan: oh man, you guys are too much. :) I admit, I do really like this one, I’m just not familiar at all with journals and whatnot. (Though perhaps I will have to check out the names that you provided, Bryan…) Perhaps I’ll look into it if I don’t chicken out first…
calliopespen said,
July 15, 2009 at 10:08 am
Please do it, Joseph. Don’t chicken out.
The more I read what you write, the more impressed I become. I’m not just blowing sunshine either. You really are that good.
And this poem? This one is phenomenal. If I was an editor I’d publish it in a heartbeat. Submit it. What’s the worse that could happen?
poeticgrin said,
July 15, 2009 at 10:49 am
I’ll email you some contacts tonight.
christopher said,
July 15, 2009 at 6:37 pm
What they all said. This is one powerful, gritty poem. Me too, the tears thing, and a descending quiet moan as well. It’s just business.