Eileen Myles - poems · Eileen Myles is an American poet who has also worked in fiction, non-fiction, and theater. She won a 2010 Shelley Memorial Award. Early Life and Career

Classic Poetry Series

Eileen Myles- poems -

Publication Date: 2012

Publisher:Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive

Eileen Myles(1949 -) Eileen Myles is an American poet who has also worked in fiction, non-fiction, andtheater. She won a 2010 Shelley Memorial Award. Early Life and Career Eileen Myles grew up and attended Catholic schools in Arlington, Massachusettsand graduated from U. Mass (Boston) in 1971. Arriving in New York in 1974, Myles gave her first reading at CBGB and attendedworkshops at St. Mark’s Poetry Project, studying alongside Alice Notley, TedBerrigan, and Bill Zavatsky. She developed as a part of the poetry and queer artscene that developed in Manhattan's East Village. She worked as assistant topoet James Schuyler; met Allen Ginsberg at the Nuyorican Poets Café. Her first performances and theater pieces (Joan of Arc: a spiritual entertainment,Patriarchy, a play, Feeling Blue Pts. 1, 2 7 3 and Modern Art and Our Sor JuanaInes de la Cruz) at the St. Mark's Poetry Project, P.S. 122 and The WOW Café.Myles has performed her work at colleges, performance spaces, and bookstoresacross North America as well as in, Iceland, Ireland and Russia. She lives in NewYork. Myles's works include poetry, fiction, articles, plays and libretti, including: Hell(an opera with composer Michael Webster). Professional Life In 1992 Myles conducted a female-led write-in campaign for President of theUnited States. In the 1980s she was Artistic Director of St. Mark's Poetry Project.In 1997 and again in 2007 Eileen toured with Sister Spit, a post-punk femaleperformance troupe. Myles is Professor Emerita of Writing and Literature, and taught at University ofCalifornia, San Diego from 2002 to 2007. She continues to teach during summersat the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado, and was the Hugo Writer atUniversity of Montana for the spring of 2010. She contributes to severalpublications, recently including Parkett, aNother Magazine, the Believer, H.O.Wjournal and Provincetown Arts. During summer 2009 she contributed regularly tothe Poetry Foundation's "Harriet" blog.

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Critical Reception Bust Magazine has called Myles "the rock star of modern poetry", and HollandCotter in The New York Times described her as "a cult figure to a generation ofpost-punk female writer-performers." Of her poetry book Sorry, Tree, theChicago Review wrote: "Her politics are overt, her physicality raw, yet it is thesubtle gentle noticing in her poems that overwhelms." In 2010, her novel Inferno won the Lambda Literary Award for Best LesbianFiction.


An American Poem I was born in Boston in1949. I never wantedthis fact to be known, infact I've spent the betterhalf of my adult lifetrying to sweep my earlyyears under the carpetand have a life thatwas clearly just mineand independent ofthe historic fate ofmy family. Can youimagine what it waslike to be one of them,to be built like them,to talk like themto have the benefitsof being born into sucha wealthy and powerfulAmerican family. I wentto the best schools,had all kinds of tutorsand trainers, traveledwidely, met the famous,the controversial, andthe not-so-admirableand I knew froma very early age thatif there were ever anypossibility of escapingthe collective fate of this famousBoston family I wouldtake that route andI have. I hoppedon an Amtrak to NewYork in the early‘70s and I guessyou could saymy hidden years


began. I thoughtWell I'll be a poet.What could be morefoolish and obscure.I became a lesbian.Every woman in myfamily looks likea dyke but it's reallystepping off the flagwhen you become one.While holding this ignominiouspose I have seen andI have learned andI am beginning to thinkthere is no escapinghistory. A woman Iam currently havingan affair with saidyou know you looklike a Kennedy. I feltthe blood rising in mycheeks. People havealways laughed atmy Boston accentconfusing "large" for"lodge," "party"for "potty." Butwhen this unsuspectingwoman invoked forthe first time myfamily nameI knew the jigwas up. Yes, I am,I am a Kennedy.My attempts to remainobscure have not servedme well. Starting asa humble poet Iquickly climbed to thetop of my professionassuming a position ofleadership and honor.


It is right that awoman should callme out now. Yes,I am a Kennedy.And I awaityour orders.You are the New Americans.The homeless are wanderingthe streets of our nation'sgreatest city. Homelessmen with AIDS are amongthem. Is that right?That there are no homesfor the homeless, thatthere is no free medicalhelp for these men. And women.That they get the message—as they are dying—that this is not their home?And how are yourteeth today? Canyou afford to fix them?How high is your rent?If art is the highestand most honest formof communication ofour times and the youngartist is no longer ableto move here to speakto her time…Yes, I could,but that was 15 years agoand remember—as I mustI am a Kennedy.Shouldn't we all be Kennedys?This nation's greatest cityis home of the business-man and home of therich artist. People withbeautiful teeth who are noton the streets. What shallwe do about this dilemma?Listen, I have been educated.


I have learned about WesternCivilization. Do you knowwhat the message of WesternCivilization is? I am alone.Am I alone tonight?I don't think so. Am Ithe only one with bleeding gumstonight. Am I the onlyhomosexual in this roomtonight. Am I the onlyone whose friends havedied, are dying now.And my art can'tbe supported until it isgigantic, bigger thaneveryone else's, confirmingthe audience's feeling that they arealone. That they aloneare good, deservedto buy the ticketsto see this Art.Are working,are healthy, shouldsurvive, and arenormal. Are younormal tonight? Everyonehere, are we all normal.It is not normal forme to be a Kennedy.But I am no longerashamed, no longeralone. I am notalone tonight becausewe are all Kennedys.And I am your President. Eileen Myles


Dream Close to thedoor inmy dream thesmall signs I saw a brownsign with wisdomon itI saw a brownone leaningwith wisdomon it fringe of a mirrormy motherleaning over a pondcupping water leaning againstthe mouldingcardboard orwood which materials do you does your wisdom prefer which a-partment in a summerwith someoneI felt brave tohave touchedher love the screendoor and the dogsand the cats alwaysgetting out. Thatwas the feartwo signsfading but recallingthey had faded like wordsfade in stone because


of the rain and the daysand waking and the dreamis leaving with everystep leaning over the meatbecause I do not wantyou to have died in vainkissing the turkey andthe neck of? my dogall animals am I.all dreams, all stoneall message am I. Eileen Myles


Each Defeat Please! Keepreading meBlakebecause you're going to makeme the greatestpoet ofall time Keep smoothingthe stones in thedrivewaylet me fry an eggon your ass& I'll pick upthe mail. I feel yourabsence inthe morning& imagine yourinstant mouthlet me movein with you—Travellingwrapping your limbson my backI grow man womanChildI see wild wild wild Keep letting theday be massiveUnlicensedOh please havemy child I'm a little controlling Prose has some Magic. Morgan


had awhore inher lap. YouBig fishermanI love myFriends. I want to leanmy everythingwith youmake home for your hubrisI want to read the words you circld over and over againA slow skunk walking across the roadYellow, just kindof pausingpicked up the warmlaundry. I just saw a coyotetippy tippy tippyI didn't tell you about the creature with hairlong hair, it was hit by cars on the highwayAgain and again. It had long grey hairIt must've been a dog; it could've beenOurs. Everyone loses their friends. I couldn't tell anyone about this sight.Each defeatIs sweet. Eileen Myles


London Exchange I have utmostrespect for youbut in thatmoment if Iwere toget out ofyour wayinstead ofwalking up the stairsto my homeI would haveno respectfor myself.I didn't knowwhy you couldn'tunderstand thiswhen I toldyou. Insteadyou screamedat me andtold me Iwas rude. Andthen yousaid someoneof myage shouldknow meaningthat youwere addingto my crimethe factthat I amolder than you.What am Ito do. Howmany dayshave passedand Ihave no


reason to thinkthatyour ancestorswere stolenfrom theirhome in A-fricaand becauseof my notknowing that thisis truebut thinkingthat itis possibleit makesme certainthat respectnext timewould befor meto step around.MaybeI could sayquietly joining youfor a momentin yourvast andancientsorrowthat wasmy home Eileen Myles


Movie You're likea little fruityou're likea moon I wantto holdI said lemon slopeabout yourhipbecause it's oneof my wordsabout youI whisperedin bedthis smoothingthe fruit &then alonewith my bookbut writingin it the pageswaggingagainst my knucklesin thelight like asail. Eileen Myles


Our Happiness was when thelights wereout the whole cityin darkness & we drove northto our friend'syellow apt.where she hadpower & wecould work later we stayedin the darkenedapt. you sickin bed & mewriting ambitiouslyby candle lightin thin bluebooks your neighbor hada generator &after a whilewe had a littlebit of light I walked thedog & youwere stilla little bitsick we sat on a stoopone day in thelate afternoonwe had very little


money. enough fora strong cappuccinowhich we sharedsitting there &suddenly thecity was lit. Eileen Myles


Peanut Butter I am always hungry& wanting to havesex. This is a fact.If you get rightdown to it the newunprocessed peanutbutter is no damngood & you shouldbuy it in a jar asalways in thelargest supermarketyou know. AndI am an enemyof change, asyou know. Allthe things Iembrace as neware infact old things,re-released: swimming,the sensation ofbeing dirty inbody and mindsummer as atime to donothing and makeno money. Prayeras a last re-sort. Pleasureas a means,and then ameans againwith no endsin sight. I amabsolutely in oppositionto all kinds ofgoals. I haveno desire to know where this, anything


is getting me.When the waterboils I geta cup of tea.Accidentally Iread all theworks of Proust.It was summerI was thereso was he. Iwrite becauseI would liketo be used foryears aftermy death. Notonly my bodywill be compostbut the thoughtsI left duringmy life. Duringmy life I wasa woman withhazel eyes. Outthe windowis a crookedsilo. Partsof yourbody I thinkof as stripeswhich I havelearned tolove along. Weswim nakedin ponds &I write be-hind yourback. My thoughtsabout you arenot exactlyforbidden, butexalted becausethey are useless,


not intendedto get youbecause I haveyou & you loveme. It's morelike a playgroundwhere I playwith my reflectionof you untilyou come backand into thereal you Iget to sinkmy teeth. Withyou I know howto relax. &so I workbehind yourback. Whichis lovely.Natureis out of controlyou tell me &that's what's sogood aboutit. I'm immoderatelyin love with you,knocked out byall your newwhite hair why shouldn'tsomethingI have alwaysknown be thevery best thereis. I loveyou from mychildhood,starting backthere whenone day was


just like therest, randomgrowth andbreezes, constantlove, a sand-wich in themiddle ofday,a tiny stepin the vastlyconventionalpath ofthe Sun. Isquint. Iwink. Itake theride. Eileen Myles


Snakes I was 6 andI lost my snake. The table shookI can do betterthan thisand shambledto the kitchento the sceneof the crime I was greenI put my sneakerdown, little shoe I felt the coldmetal tapmy calf moo and everythingbegan to change.I am 6turned into lightningwrote on the night At 6, I was feathersscales, I fell intothe slime of it, lit You think you are six,it yelled. I am faceto face with a froga woman alonein bed. The squareof the windowpersists. I am 6. The phone ringsIt's my sister


blamm I droppeda plate. Sorry. Now the clouds slide by afraid, awakemy feet are coldbut I'm fearless I am 6. Under herewith bottle capsand starsadults and lowmoans, busses slamming on brakesI am 6 the cake is litit's roundthe childrensing. I will neverreturn. We areso small. My husband turnshis feveredface. I putthe medicinedown. Click.I am 6. The movie rolls on.Tramping feet,music blaringat the end ofthe war. Iam frightenedhold my hand The round face


of the womanupstairs, movingthe faucets, stripsof vegetable slithering down,her reptile childwill neverreturn. The telephonerings. It's me.I'm six. Eileen Myles


Sympathy She's rubbing his shoulderand he's reading aboutWestern birds. There's a scoopof light just above my knee it resembles the world, the one I knowa layer of smoke spread thin, a shelf my mind returns again &again to the pictureyou gave me. In pain.I'm holding the receiverin Denver some woman makinghuman eyes at me from herblue seat, but I laterconclude she's crazy I'm helpless, rushing back to fix the"h," how can I help you I think we tried this long enoughour curewe would save us from everybodyelse, we "got" it,us and now we're another falling down carcomplaining animalempty house you bleeding & expandinguntil the red night itselfis your endless disappointmentin mewho promised so muchon that hill


O Glory to everybody & everythingthat we will fish again & again& get lucky Anonymous submission. Eileen Myles


The Honey Bear Billie Holiday was on the radioI was standing in the kitchensmoking my cigarette of thispack I plan to finish tonightlast night of smoking youth.I made a cup of this funnykind of tea I've had hangingaround. A little too sweetan odd mix. My only impulsewas to make it sweeter.Ivy Anderson was singingpretty late tonightin my very bright kitchen.I'm standing by the tubfeeling a little oldernearly thirty in my verybright kitchen tonight.I'm not a bad looking womanI suppose O it's very quietin my kitchen tonight I'm squeezingthis plastic honey bear a noodleof honey dripping into the odd sweettea. It's pretty lateHoney bear's cover was looseand somehow honey dripping downthe bear's face catchingin the crevices beneaththe bear's eyes O very sad and sweetI'm standing in my kitchen O honeyI'm staring at the honey bear's face. Eileen Myles


Uppity Roads around mountainscause we can't drivethrough That's Poetryto Me. Eileen Myles

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Eileen Myles - poems · Eileen Myles is an American poet who has also worked in fiction, non-fiction, and theater. She won a 2010 Shelley Memorial Award. Early Life and Career