Old Poetry VI – To You My Beautiful Person
Back in the day, when I was about twenty-two and a bit later, ’til about twenty-six, I wrote poetry. I haven’t written a real poem in a very long time. I used to be so into poem writing that I would go to “open-mics” and read my poems with my friend and brief-boyfriend Calvin. Calvin was significantly older than me, and unfortunately, the relationship didn’t quite work out on my end.
Calvin and I would go to the Mercury Café in Denver and read poetry, and we’d also go to a place called the Kasbah. What’s interesting about that is that Calvin and I were two white gay guys, and the Kasbah (or Casbah) was a mainly African-American lounge that had a poetry night. So we’d show up and we’d be the only two gay white guys amidst a see of strong black poets. It was a little bit daunting.
Of course, I decided to try my hand at being a “spoken word” artist and composed a SUPER long poem. I tried to pull it off and I was clapped offstage (or played offstage) at both the Mercury and the Kasbah… very embarrassing. After that, and the fact there was a shooting at the Kasbah one night I didn’t go, and my interest in open-mic’ing kinda died out.
I used to host all my poetry, both good and bad, on my website, but it’s been a long time since I’ve done that. I’ve decided to, after approximately fourteen years, reshare the poetry that I wrote as a teenager and young adult.
Some of it is cringe, and some of it’s not quite so bad. You be the judge.
To You My Beautiful Person
When I put my head to the concrete, I can hear your voice inside the walls, I can see your smile in the paint, I can smell your cologne around your locker, And when I get undressed we banter about your girlfriends, Like good old times when we wanted to be Asa, There was no time like the time you built a gingerbread house, And I yelled at you because it was not acceptable for you not to do your homework, All I was trying to do was help you and I wasted my time writing a paper neither of us could use, When I drive up the hill next to the 7-11 in the dark in winter, Because I don't walk anymore, I can remember our vampire conversations, And how I would leave all my clothes on when I slept at your trailer, Because I was wary of your step-brother. When I stare at the cloudless sky I can see you walking on the guard rail on the bridge, As we drove by you unknowing, With your arms stuck out in that beautiful balancing act you do, And every time I realize that people don't really know what goes on in my head, I think of you, my brother in arms, my friend forever, How lonely I would feel at Ian's, in apartments in far-away cities, It was all just a dream, I had to eventually wake up, and liberate myself, From the fantasy I was holding on, to you, my beautiful person.
Unrequited love is a bitch, but, what can you do? You can write poetry, that’s what.
Stay tuned for Old Poetry VII