Performed by Val Cole

Get to know the poet:

1) What is the theme of your poem?

The theme of this poem is "ghosting"--how people move in and out of each other's lives and the hurt and longing it provokes--as well as sparking memories of joyous times spent together. I pride myself in staying in touch with people, but truth be told, I haven't always been so good or absolutely reliable. I wanted to make sure that I didn't portray myself as a victim to other people disappearing. I am part of this "system" too.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

Finding out about the death of a friend. We had fallen out of touch and I wondered what had happened to her. This brought me to other memories, and also instances where I made the decision to stop a friendship. The biggest loss for me, though, is losing my mother before she could see me truly happy in my life. I have gone through all the stages of mourning, but the end result is that I still miss my mommy.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

I have been writing poetry since I was a child. I started studying poetry in high school and had an excellent teacher, and I am still in touch with her (thanks Beth Thompson of SWS/Brookline High School). I returned to poetry again when I was in my late 30s, after writing nonfiction for many years as an academic. Though I write short poems focused on an image and an observation, I also like to write more sprawling narrative poems, filled with asides and indulgences.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

Elizabeth Bishop--her poetry, especially her works written in Brazil, continue to inspire me, especially how she describes becoming oneself away from home.

I'd love to have dinner with the Brazilian inventor and aviator Alberto Santos-Dumont (sorry Wright brothers, he was the first). I visited his self-designed home in Petrópolis, which is so lovely and also very wacky, I thought I'd like to sit down with this amazing eccentric. Who else? I love witty people with sharp tongues---so folks like Truman Capote, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde, James Baldwin, and Fran Lebowitz would be great to listen to at dinner.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I don't like reading my work aloud. I prefer it when other people read it. I'm told I have a good speaking voice, but when it comes to my own work I am never sure if I should act it with emotion or recite the words dispassionately. When I do readings, I prefer talking about the "back story" of the poem, rather than reading the work itself. I imagine a reading where other people read my poetry. Having a professional voice actor reading this particular poem, is a gift I just couldn't refuse.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc..?

I write creative nonfiction as well as poetry. For many years I wrote essays, but that part of my output is dwindling as I retire from academia. I teach media and film and I love advising students who are working on scripts but I don't write them myself.

7) What is your passion in life?

Apart from writing, I love traveling, kayaking, floating, cooking, eating, napping, drinking flavored seltzers, making pesto, dancing, envisioning and working toward a re-awakened, more democratic USA.

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POEM:

I.
She was a difficult person, too smart for academia perhaps
and reluctant to self-promote
and angry that she was unsung unlike her acclaimed grad school chums.
As Little Edie said she was a “staunch woman”
and the world—or her particular subfield of art history—
just didn’t like that.
She told me about the numerous friends and infrequent lovers
who had wronged her,
so I knew our friendship had a time stamp on it.
But O how we would kiki and make fun of our straight colleagues
(and how some of them deserved our bitchy ridicule
after all the phobic behavior they smugly presented to us queer folk!).
She was so witty and so lonely too.
Her lovely apartment on East End Avenue was covered in dust.
Sometimes she wanted an audience more than a friend,
other times I was her trusted ally, seeking and giving out advice, providing camaraderie.
And then I never saw her again.
Years later I found out she died from cancer.

II.
We had a stormy, silly romance.
I needed something time-consuming
to avoid focusing on my dissertation
and he certainly gave me drama with his erratic, if ardent, behavior.
He wasn’t working
and I noticed letters from the management company
for back rent piled on the kitchen table—
He lived in a doorman building, and I lived in a tenement.
But I paid my rent. And had money to take us out to dinner at the diner.
He had been a model for Valentino and was trained as a classical singer.
He was funny and loved to laugh.
He loved to call everyone Miss Thing,
including me.
He planned to become a Heldentenor
but he wasn’t quite ready he said to be on stage to sing heroic Wagnerian roles.
So he continued his voice lessons.
One day I noticed his back had mysterious spots on it.
He tested positive for HIV and I tested negative.
I pledged that I would stand by him
no matter what.
But then I never saw him again.
Years later I did a search on the Internet
And saw that he was married
and teaching voice at a college in the state where his mother was from.

III.
My mommy was a regal German-Irish feminist from the Bronx,
A strong swimmer afflicted with polio when young.
She was also a cry-baby like me and when we watched Old Yeller together, we sobbed,
and then laughed at each other.
She cried too when Bewitched was interrupted to announce that MLK was assassinated.
I tried to comfort her but couldn’t. No laughter then.
Later when I thought I was grown up, I started calling her by her first name.
She smiled each time I did this, as if to say,
call me what you want—
I know you are still my baby boy
and no matter what name you use
inside you are calling me Mommy and you always will.
Mommy was your first word and it will be your last.
O Jean. O Mommy. I have so much to tell you. I have a husband and a dog and I’m happy.
Well, most of the time.
I am taking care of your house, and its land, which is mine now, but it is still yours too.
And it turns out, I’m not crazy after all, but the world is.
In her last days she was in hospice care in her rented apartment in Brookline.
Though she was ready to be released from her shrinking body,
she took a turn for the better
and I jumped on the Amtrak train at Back Bay to resume my NYC life, if only for a few days.
But before the train pulled up to the Route 128 stop, my father called sobbing.
And then I never saw her again.

IV.
Sorry, but I refuse to sum up.
Yet I must confess
I have attempted the disappearing act too