Trace him in the wilderness

  "Split this rock" är en pålitlig bokinspiratör. Det har jag skrivit om förut. Tyvärr har måndagarna haltat under november och antalet inlägg reducerats. Eventuellt tar jag igen något av dem i veckan efter jul. Dagens bok, The spectral wilderness, är författad av Oliver Baez Bendorf.

  Som om det är inte nog så placerar jag Arne Johnsson i adventskalendern, introducerad med en dikt.

står på gatan, pengar, kort, mobil i handen. Jag känner
ingen här, språket är tömt. Hunden skäller åter, minns barndomens bygata, gårdarna med bandhundar, dofterna av djur, foder, jord, det kippar av väta under sulorna; det har gått så lång tid, jag vet inte vart allt tar vägen, om det är här det slutar, om det här är det börjar. Säger åter att jag inte tror på någonting, men var sanningen är vet jag inte, den uppenbaras inte heller här, inte i grus, inte i vatten. Jag ser hur snön och isen löses till väta. Dagen är inte varm, ändå tinar mark fram, likt minne ur glömska

(Ur Reidjz, av Arne Johnsson. Stehag : Östlings bokförlag Symposion, 2010.)

***

  Oliver Baez Bendorf (f. 1987 Iowa) är en queer och trans poet, serietecknare, lärare och bibliotekarie.

  Hans diktsamling, The Spectral Wilderness (Kent State University Press 2015) valdes av Mark Doty för Wick Poetry Prize. Han har en MFA i poesi och en MA i biblioteks- och informationsvetenskap, båda från University of Wisconsin-Madison, där han erhöll Martha Meier Renk Distinguished Graduate Fellowship i poesi.

Oliver Baez Bendorf

I Promised Her My Hands Wouldn’t Get Any Larger, by Oliver Baez Bendorf

(From The spectral wilderness : poems. Kent, Ohio : Kent State University Press, 2015.)

But she’s decided we need to trace them in case I

turn out to be wrong. Every morning she wakes me

with a sheet of paper. In the beginning, she stowed

all the tracings in a folder, until one day I said I’d like

to at least see where this is going, and from that point on

we hung them on the wall chronologically. When I

study them, they look back at me like busted

headlights. I wear my lab coat around the house to

make sure they know who’s observing whom. If we

can ensure records, if we can be diligent in our

testing. I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Nothing

feels smaller yet. Not her, not the kettle nor the key.

If my hands do grow, they should also be the kind

that can start a fire with just a deer in the road.

***

  Den här läsupplevelsen kommer att leva kvar länge i mitt minne. Det känns som om någon har tryckt in Lynda Barry och Sherlock Holmes i ett garnityrverktyg och ut ur andra änden kom Oliver Baez Bendorfs texter.

Split it Open Just to Count the Pieces, by Oliver Baez Bendorf
(From The spectral wilderness : poems. Kent, Ohio : Kent State University Press, 2015.)

One might consider that identification is always an ambivalent process.

       — Judith Butler

Call me tumblefish, rip-roar, pocket of light,

haberdash and milkman, velveteen and silverbreath,

your bitch, your little brother, Ponderosa pine,

almanac and crabshack and dandelion weed. Call me

babyface, kidege—little bird or little plane—thorn of rose

and loaded gun, a pile of walnut shells. Egg whites

and sandpaper, crown of Gabriel, hand-rolled sea,

call me cobblestone and half-pint, your Spanish

red-brick empire. Call me panic and Orion, Pinocchio

and buttercream. Saltlick, shooting star, August peach

and hurricane. Call me giddyup and Tarzan, riot boy

and monk, flavor-trip and soldier and departure.

Call me Eiffel Tower, arrondissement, le garçon,

call me the cigarette tossed near the leak

of gasoline. Call me and tell me that Paris is on fire at last,

that the queens of Harlem can have their operations

and their washing machines. Call me seamless,

call me sir. Call me tomorrow’s inevitable sunrise.

***

  Och jag sparar den bästa dikten till sist. Går det att skriva en bättre dikt på temat "självbild"?

Make believe, by Oliver Baez Bendorf

(From The spectral wilderness : poems. Kent, Ohio : Kent State University Press, 2015.)

The first time I took a razor to my face

I forgot what I was made of. Having

made believe all I could, I made believe

a little further, pulling the open blade

around the corner of my lips, watching

a few desolate strands fall to the sink

like soldiers in a porcelain trench,

or as with invisible ink drew myself

a mustache I could get behind.

Or I am made up of fanciful scraps

and small fingers, one for every time

I’ve ever been called Sir.

Tomorrow I’ll get a prescription

is what I’ve resolved every day since

the last June solstice drained the light

from the sky and passerines remembered

they had wings. In the woods I walk

figure eights around ground shrubs

that cling to the cold grass below

and remind myself: no guarantees.

It’s true, some days I want the beard

in writing, want to know that when

I needle myself every fourteen

days, all the hundred jagged things

that give me away will start to shift

and this traveling itch will disappear

for good. But it happens as a gradient

so I wait like small hands cupped. I wait

in character, hips pointing the way,

shoulders broad like a wingspan.

I wait at the outskirts of regulation

with my Stetson and Wranglers for

the oak trees and the sheep herd

and the waiter and the goat vet

and the teapot and the snowstorm

and my father and my father’s father

and the children I pass in the field

to see me as this new soft man

and for me to begin to believe it.