Because — well, just because.
JULIE
Julie, I can see you better when I close my eyes.
You and I were never lovers
except for that one night we nearly were,
and that next night when we nearly admitted to the first night,
and that third night when we came as near to it as we ever did,
carefully sensing each other’s need as we danced, moving together like slow swans:
three nights worth remembering.
But then I recall
the night we were supposed to have dinner,
how I let the phone ring when you called,
how instead of picking up
I went on making love to our mutual friend;
I imagine you hanging up pissed off in your quiet way,
going to the bar, drinking just enough to get sleepy;
think of the car sailing off the road and coming to sudden rest;
think of you thrown from the bent Renault;
think of you embracing the tree instead of me,
of you growing cold by your car in the woods; and
no matter how many times I think of those things,
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.
Julie, I’m alone today, standing staring at your graven name
on a day that’s as dark and as grey as this stone.
It’s been twenty years since I was one of six
who carried your blonde coffin first up and then down the church steps.
I braced for that box to feel as leaden as I felt,
but when it felt empty, I drew deep into myself
and stayed there —
and now, somewhere outside my black hole,
outside this place where I can never do over what I never did at all,
there’s another place where you’re still
as light as you ever were.
I think of it, and of our three nights, whenever I close my eyes.
Such a shame that I have to close my eyes to see you, Julie.
So hard to believe that it could have been different.
I can almost see it when I close my eyes.
I have to learn to let that be enough.
Dark Matter 
March 18th, 2004 at 1:59 pm
Re: Oh, dear…
I’m glad you wrote this, and am very glad you shared it. I especially love the description of your three nights together – so poignant, that bittersweet nostalgia.
The line that haunts me, though, is:
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.
Perhaps because you both now shared a tragic guilt that no one else could understand? Perhaps because to do otherwise would’ve rendered her loss even more meaningless? But all this only after, “Oh my god, you stayed together?” That line changes the poem entirely for me.
Well, we’re not together now…we did end up damn near married, though, and were together for another two and a half years afterward.
I’m not sure we ever overtly talked about it that much…at the time, of course, we were horrified. Both of us cried for days over the image of us lying together, listening to the phone ring, and telling each other that we’d just pretend we’d missed the call…
We were kids, I know, but still…
I have, I think, forgiven myself to some degree. And I would lay odds Julie would too; I don’t know how the other person feels, as we haven’t spoken in years.
March 18th, 2004 at 1:59 pm
Re: Oh, dear…
I’m glad you wrote this, and am very glad you shared it. I especially love the description of your three nights together – so poignant, that bittersweet nostalgia.
The line that haunts me, though, is:
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.
Perhaps because you both now shared a tragic guilt that no one else could understand? Perhaps because to do otherwise would’ve rendered her loss even more meaningless? But all this only after, “Oh my god, you stayed together?” That line changes the poem entirely for me.
Well, we’re not together now…we did end up damn near married, though, and were together for another two and a half years afterward.
I’m not sure we ever overtly talked about it that much…at the time, of course, we were horrified. Both of us cried for days over the image of us lying together, listening to the phone ring, and telling each other that we’d just pretend we’d missed the call…
We were kids, I know, but still…
I have, I think, forgiven myself to some degree. And I would lay odds Julie would too; I don’t know how the other person feels, as we haven’t spoken in years.
March 18th, 2004 at 12:07 pm
Re: Oh, dear…
Honestly, good or not, that’s the way most of my poems that people are powerfully affected by are written. Which is probably why it’s easier for me to not think of myself as a poet. Rather, I write poetry occasionally, I share it with others when I think it appropriate, and I glow with joy when someone is moved by it.
I admire those who can actually be poets – those who write consistently enough to hone their craft, who can objectively see the good and bad in their work, and who keep the literary standard high.
That said, I imagine it’s even more challenging for a poet to write a not-necessarily-good, yet powerful, personal work, the onus of quality always at their shoulder, mocking them.
Nevertheless, I feel it important that these poems be written and shared – they are a reflection of our humanity. It’s similar to the way a pop song can strike just the right chord sometimes, even if you can’t stand pop music.
I’m glad you wrote this, and am very glad you shared it. I especially love the description of your three nights together – so poignant, that bittersweet nostalgia.
The line that haunts me, though, is:
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.
Perhaps because you both now shared a tragic guilt that no one else could understand? Perhaps because to do otherwise would’ve rendered her loss even more meaningless? But all this only after, “Oh my god, you stayed together?” That line changes the poem entirely for me.
March 18th, 2004 at 12:07 pm
Re: Oh, dear…
Honestly, good or not, that’s the way most of my poems that people are powerfully affected by are written. Which is probably why it’s easier for me to not think of myself as a poet. Rather, I write poetry occasionally, I share it with others when I think it appropriate, and I glow with joy when someone is moved by it.
I admire those who can actually be poets – those who write consistently enough to hone their craft, who can objectively see the good and bad in their work, and who keep the literary standard high.
That said, I imagine it’s even more challenging for a poet to write a not-necessarily-good, yet powerful, personal work, the onus of quality always at their shoulder, mocking them.
Nevertheless, I feel it important that these poems be written and shared – they are a reflection of our humanity. It’s similar to the way a pop song can strike just the right chord sometimes, even if you can’t stand pop music.
I’m glad you wrote this, and am very glad you shared it. I especially love the description of your three nights together – so poignant, that bittersweet nostalgia.
The line that haunts me, though, is:
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.
Perhaps because you both now shared a tragic guilt that no one else could understand? Perhaps because to do otherwise would’ve rendered her loss even more meaningless? But all this only after, “Oh my god, you stayed together?” That line changes the poem entirely for me.
March 18th, 2004 at 11:21 am
Re: hey tony…
*shiver*
chilling.
March 18th, 2004 at 11:21 am
Re: hey tony…
*shiver*
chilling.
March 12th, 2004 at 9:12 pm
Oh, dear…
It’s odd, because I really don’t think of this as being that good a poem…one of those cases where I let voice overwhelm craft, which is not my wont.
Thank you.
March 12th, 2004 at 9:12 pm
Oh, dear…
It’s odd, because I really don’t think of this as being that good a poem…one of those cases where I let voice overwhelm craft, which is not my wont.
Thank you.
March 12th, 2004 at 9:11 pm
Re: hey tony…
I love that poem. Thank you for bringing it into this discussion!
March 12th, 2004 at 9:11 pm
Re: hey tony…
I love that poem. Thank you for bringing it into this discussion!
March 12th, 2004 at 4:05 pm
Re: hey tony…
That’s what makes this piece amazing.
I first understood that concept (the concept of writing the truth, not re-writing the truth) when I read this poem:
-Ginsberg-
No blame. Anyone who wrote Howl and Kaddish
earned the right to make any possible mistake
for the rest of his life.
I just wish I hadn’t made this mistake with him.
It was during the Vietnam war
and he was giving a great protest reading
in Washington Square Park
and nobody wanted to leave.
So Ginsberg got the idea, “I’m going to shout
“the war is over” as loud as I can,” he said
“and all of you run over the city
in different directions
yelling the war is over, shout it in offices,
shops, everywhere and when enough people
believe the war is over
why, not even the politicians
will be able to keep it going.”
I thought it was a great idea at the time
a truly poetic idea.
So when Ginsberg yelled I ran down the street
and leaned in the doorway
of the sort of respectable down on its luck cafeteria
where librarians and minor clerks have lunch
and I yelled “the war is over.”
And a little old lady looked up
from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
She was so ordinary she would have been invisible
except for the terrible light
filling her face as she whispered
“My son. My son is coming home.”
I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
That was the first time I believed there was a war.
– Julia Vinograd
March 12th, 2004 at 4:05 pm
Re: hey tony…
That’s what makes this piece amazing.
I first understood that concept (the concept of writing the truth, not re-writing the truth) when I read this poem:
-Ginsberg-
No blame. Anyone who wrote Howl and Kaddish
earned the right to make any possible mistake
for the rest of his life.
I just wish I hadn’t made this mistake with him.
It was during the Vietnam war
and he was giving a great protest reading
in Washington Square Park
and nobody wanted to leave.
So Ginsberg got the idea, “I’m going to shout
“the war is over” as loud as I can,” he said
“and all of you run over the city
in different directions
yelling the war is over, shout it in offices,
shops, everywhere and when enough people
believe the war is over
why, not even the politicians
will be able to keep it going.”
I thought it was a great idea at the time
a truly poetic idea.
So when Ginsberg yelled I ran down the street
and leaned in the doorway
of the sort of respectable down on its luck cafeteria
where librarians and minor clerks have lunch
and I yelled “the war is over.”
And a little old lady looked up
from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
She was so ordinary she would have been invisible
except for the terrible light
filling her face as she whispered
“My son. My son is coming home.”
I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
That was the first time I believed there was a war.
– Julia Vinograd
March 12th, 2004 at 4:03 pm
This is an amazing piece.
You have distilled years of scattered, conflicted feelings into a singular, concise, and beautiful work of art. In other words – poetry.
March 12th, 2004 at 4:03 pm
This is an amazing piece.
You have distilled years of scattered, conflicted feelings into a singular, concise, and beautiful work of art. In other words – poetry.
March 12th, 2004 at 1:58 pm
Re: hey tony…
yes, in a good way, to do with the ability to articulate something that’s hard to say, to put us there, to make it real for us, to not cut yourself a break. and i’m totally relating on the letting people down issue, as my failings are many…
March 12th, 2004 at 1:58 pm
Re: hey tony…
yes, in a good way, to do with the ability to articulate something that’s hard to say, to put us there, to make it real for us, to not cut yourself a break. and i’m totally relating on the letting people down issue, as my failings are many…
March 12th, 2004 at 12:06 pm
Re: hey tony…
We all have done and said things that we regret and that is the awesome power of poetry (or prose), is that you address these issues and move a little bit forward in the healing process. Thanks for sharing this.
March 12th, 2004 at 12:06 pm
Re: hey tony…
We all have done and said things that we regret and that is the awesome power of poetry (or prose), is that you address these issues and move a little bit forward in the healing process. Thanks for sharing this.
March 12th, 2004 at 11:18 am
Thanks, Reid…
It’s hard to even read it, y’know?
March 12th, 2004 at 11:18 am
Thanks, Reid…
It’s hard to even read it, y’know?
March 12th, 2004 at 11:17 am
Thanks.
It was a hard poem to write.
March 12th, 2004 at 11:17 am
Thanks.
It was a hard poem to write.
March 12th, 2004 at 11:17 am
Re: hey tony…
I hope in a good way, Jeff.
I always worry about having folks read or hear this poem — it exposes a side of me and a time I don’t like thinking about very much. It’s one of the things that I think makes me feel so guilty about letting friends down.
When I wrote it, I was determined to tell the truth no matter how unflattering — I hate the fact that this happened, and my part in it.
March 12th, 2004 at 11:17 am
Re: hey tony…
I hope in a good way, Jeff.
I always worry about having folks read or hear this poem — it exposes a side of me and a time I don’t like thinking about very much. It’s one of the things that I think makes me feel so guilty about letting friends down.
When I wrote it, I was determined to tell the truth no matter how unflattering — I hate the fact that this happened, and my part in it.
March 12th, 2004 at 7:18 am
hey tony…
just want to let you know i’ve re-read this a lot of times now and am rocked.
March 12th, 2004 at 7:18 am
hey tony…
just want to let you know i’ve re-read this a lot of times now and am rocked.
March 12th, 2004 at 7:04 am
“…think of you embracing the tree instead of me”
Awesome, sweetie!!!!!!
March 12th, 2004 at 7:04 am
“…think of you embracing the tree instead of me”
Awesome, sweetie!!!!!!
March 11th, 2004 at 10:02 pm
the first part of this I was able to strangely relate to… and I’m sure many others could as well… but man, you bring life another level, because it’s not everyone’s life… it’ was yours… and hers.
March 11th, 2004 at 10:02 pm
the first part of this I was able to strangely relate to… and I’m sure many others could as well… but man, you bring life another level, because it’s not everyone’s life… it’ was yours… and hers.