I once asked two gay guys how they first got together, and this poem is – in effect – their story. It is one to which I, too, can relate if not quite in the same way, which is probably why it is a long poem. I found myself wandering Memory Lane and wondering whatever happened to a long-ago good mate of mine…
As some of us struggle with our sexuality, it is only too easy to imagine we are the only ones facing trial by conscience; a conscience moulded into shape over formative years when we had neither the experience to understand the implications nor the articulation to ask the right questions. Our elders and betters knew best, end of story.
As we grow into ourselves, strive for a sense of personal identity, we may well start to wonder how much of that identity comprises the real self and how much is the result of well-intentioned brainwashing. We ask of ourselves the questions we never thought to ask, often struggling with the answers our experience of the world so far feels inclined to offer; not just gay people of course, but many if not most of us who begin to question what we had been raised to believe was unquestionable.
For gay men and women, the consequences can (not always) be traumatic…until we make a decision as to whether or not (and how) to move forward or slip quietly, unobtrusively, back into our comfort zone. The trouble is, the chances are it will no longer offer anywhere near the same the degree of comfort, no matter how conscientiously we address the task of playing hide-and-seek with human nature.
THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX
A mate (among others) for years
kissed me out of the blue
and I sent him flying, left him lying
in a bloody heap on the floor,
ran to the door and into the street,
telling myself I was so angry I could cry,
and, yes, I did, but (much) later
After that, I ignored him for weeks,
satisfying the intense curiosity
of family and friend with a pack of lies
everyone seemed to swallow,
urging that we kiss and make up
quite oblivious to the irony of that phrase,
well meant, but like a knife in me
I missed him so much, the hurt in me
sent my mind rapidly spiralling
into dark places I had not been before,
yet among faces I easily recognized,
mouthing words I had only ever heard
in the school playground, on street corners,
folks taking the piss out of queers
How had I never guessed he was gay,
this good mate of mine for years,
with whom I had enjoyed doing the things
mates do, even chatting up girls now
and then (what on earth was he thinking?)
all the time, holding out on me, living a lie,
hidden feelings I could barely imagine
Imagine, though, I did as time crawled by,
dragging half-forgotten memories
into a pattern of sorts I had either missed
(or chosen not to see?) - revealing
as much about me as my former mate,
uneasy nights and restless days haunting
every move I made, ever word I said
I called at his house one rainy weekend,
much as per usual in the old days,
and his mother was so pleased to see me
I felt guilty for having stayed away,
feet dragging on the stairs as if leaden
as she showed me up to his room, his pain,
like a scar across his face, plain to see
What to say, where to start? I had no idea,
Having struggled with my feelings
to reach a (very) piecemeal understanding
of why I’d said and done what I had
and couldn’t undo or unsay so let instinct
have its way, let my senses run free wherever,
gave him a big hug, hoping for the best
He asked me nervously why I had come.
and it was only then I knew
why his loss had left me so empty a shell,
and how to fill it, mind and spirit
embracing a body hungry for such dreams
as I’d thought impossible, going there anyway,
much relieved he was kissing me back
Copyright R. N. Taber 2015
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