Insatiable Hunger

BY: PROVOKR Staff

In 1992, Eileen Myles ran for President of the United States as a write-in candidate. The openly gay poet threw her hat in the ring solely as a protest against a speech President George H.W. Bush gave, in which he disparaged the “politically correct” segment of American society. “By that he means members of ACT-UP, victims of bias crimes: women, homosexuals, ethnic and racial minorities,” wrote Myles in a campaign letter. “He would like them to shut up.” Despite her foray into politics, Myles has always been best known for her writing. In 1994, she published the autobiographical novel, Chelsea Girls (the book cover featured a photo of Myles taken by Robert Mapplethorpe), which details her sexual coming of age. She’s also published numerous books of poetry that showcase her staunchly feminist and countercultural view of the world. Here are three of Myles’s poems from her most recent book, I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems, plus a video of Myles doing a reading from her 2010 novel, Inferno (A Poet’s Novel).

 

 

PEANUT BUTTER

I am always hungry

& wanting to have

sex. That is a fact.

If you get right

down to it the new

unprocessed peanut

butter is no damn

good & you should

buy it in a jar as

always in the

largest supermarket

you know. And

I am an enemy

of change, as

you know. All

the things I

embrace as new

are in

fact old things,

re-released:

swimming,

the sensation of

being dirty in

body and mind

summer as a

time to do

nothing and make

no money. Prayer

as a last re-sort.

Pleasure

as a means,

and then a

means again

with no ends

in sight. I am

absolutely in opposition

to all kinds of

goals. I have

no desire to know

where this, anything

is getting me.

When the water

boils I get

a cup of tea.

Accidentally I

read all the

works of Proust.

It was summer

I was there

so was he. I

write because

I would like

to be used for

years after

my death. Not

only my body

will be compost

but the thoughts

I left during

my life. I was

a woman with

hazel eyes. Out

the window

is a crooked

silo. Parts

of your

body I think

of as stripes

which I have

learned to

love along. We

swim naked

in ponds &

I write be-hind

your

back. My thoughts

about you are

not exactly

forbidden, but

exalted because

they are useless,

not intended

to get you

because I have

you & you love

me. It’s more

like a playground

where I play

with my reflection

of you until

you come back

and into the

real you I

get to sink

my teeth. With

you I know how

to relax. &

so I work

behind your

back. Which

is lovely.

Nature

is out of control

you tell me &

that’s what’s so

good about

it. I’m immoderately

in love with you,

knocked out by

all your new

white hair

why shouldn’t

something

I have always

known be the

very best there

is. I love

you from my

childhood,

starting back

there when

one day was

just like the

rest, random

growth and

breezes, constant

love, a sand-wich

in the

middle of

day,

a tiny step

in the vastly

conventional

path of

the Sun. I

squint. I

wink. I

take the

ride.

AND THEN THE WEATHER ARRIVES

I don’t know no one

anymore who’s

up all night.

Wouldn’t it be fun

to hear someone

really tired

come walking

up your stairs

and knock on your door.

Come here

and share the rain

with me. You.

Isn’t it wonderful to hear

the universe

shudder. How old it all,

everything,

must be.

How slow it goes, steaming

coffee, marvelous morning,

the tiniest hairs

on the trees’ arms

coming visible.

I like it better,

no one knows

sweetness, moving your

lips in silence.

Closing your eyes all night.

It’s so much better

disarming myself

from terror, and light

passing through

a painting I stuck

on a window

earlier, when I was scared.

It’s great, it’s really great.

Trees hold the world

and the weather

moves slow.

Even a body dissolves

and takes a place, incorrectly,

everywhere I would

like to nuzzle,

and plants a heart

in the world

voiceless.

I began knocking.

Ridiculous. Just to hear

your echo back,

arm against face

just to stop those fucking

trucks, my thoughts

of vanishing

into that sweetness.

AN AMERICAN POEM

I was born in Boston in

1949. I never wanted

this fact to be known, in

fact I’ve spent the better

half of my adult life

trying to sweep my early

years under the carpet

and have a life that

was clearly just mine

and independent of

the historic fate of

my family. Can you

imagine what it was

like to be one of them,

to be built like them,

to talk like them

to have the benefits

of being born into such

a wealthy and powerful

American family. I went

to the best schools,

had all kinds of tutors

and trainers, travelled

widely, met the famous,

the controversial, and

the not-so-

admirable

and I knew from

a very early age that

if there were ever any

possibility of escaping

the collective fate of this famous

Boston family I would

take that route and

I have. I hopped

on an Amtrak to New

York in the early

‘70s and I guess

you could say

my hidden years

began. I thought

Well I’ll be a poet.

What could be more

foolish and obscure.

I became a lesbian.

Every woman in my

family looks like

a dyke but it’s really

stepping off the flag

when you become one.

While holding this ignominious

pose I have seen and

I have learned and

I am beginning to think

there is no escaping

history. A woman I

am currently having

an affair with said

you know you look

like a Kennedy. I felt

the blood rising in my

cheeks. People

have

always laughed at

my Boston accent

confusing “large” for

“lodge,” “party”

for “potty.” But

when this unsuspecting

woman invoked for

the first time my

family name

I knew the jig

was up. Yes, I am,

I am a Kennedy.

My attempts to remain

obscure have not served

me well. Starting as

a humble poet I

quickly climbed to the

top of my profession

assuming a position of

leadership and honor.

It is right that a

woman should call

me out now. Yes,

I am a Kennedy.

And I await

your orders.

You are the New Americans.

The homeless are wandering

the streets of our nation’s

greatest city. Homeless

men with AIDS are among

them. Is that right?

That there are no homes

for the homeless, that

there is no free medical

help for these men. And women.

That they get the message

—as they are dying—

that this is not their home?

And how are your

teeth today? Can

you afford to fix them?

How high is your rent?

If art is the highest

and most honest form

of communication of

our times and the young

artist is no longer able

to move here and speak

to her time . . . Yes, I could,

but that was 15 years ago

and remember—as I must

I am a Kennedy.

Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?

This nation’s greatest city

is home of the business-man

and home of the

rich artist. People with

beautiful teeth who are not

on the streets. What shall

we do about this dilemma?

Listen, I have been educated.

I have learned about Western

Civilization. Do you know

what the message of Western

Civilization is? I am alone.

Am I alone tonight?

I don’t think so. Am I

the only one with bleeding gums

tonight. Am I the only

homosexual in this room

tonight. Am I the only

one whose friends have

died, are dying now.

And my art can’t

be supported until it is

gigantic, bigger than

everyone else’s, confirming

the audience’s feeling that they are

alone. That they alone

are good, deserved

to buy the tickets

to see this Art.

Are working,

are healthy, should

survive, and are

normal. Are you

normal tonight? Everyone

here, are we all normal.

It is not normal for

me to be a Kennedy.

But I am no longer

ashamed, no longer

alone. I am not

alone tonight because

we are all Kennedys.

And I am your President.

Excerpted from I MUST BE LIVING TWICE: New and Selected Poems by Eileen Myles; published by Ecco/HarperCollins Publishers