Beds

- there've been many,
and I've sworn all of them to secrecy,
hoping mattresses keep their promise.

The one in Stokey

in the house behind the
Abney Park Cemetery

to which my mother, calling from Lucknow,
had said - "When you sleep, do not lie
facing the cemetery,"

though, often
in the evenings

I'd look at our backyard fence
running against the 18th century graves

- where an angel, an urn, a lion,
all contracted in cement, kept
an Anglican hymn-maker, kept 17 year old
world-war veterans, kept a girl who
"left us so suddenly and so irrevocably
in grief" -

and I did not think it was anything
particularly serious to be
facing them while
I slept.

My German and Greek room-mates
often partied, "facing the cemetery."


A year later, the single-bed in King's Cross,

on the fifth floor,
floated above police sirens
and bus horns,

and was stuck to the right wall of
the room that I'd expressly asked "should. face. outside."

the hostel warden - this nice white guy - was surprised,
"you're the first one to ask for a room facing the road,"
"I like the noise," I said. I did not say I'm from a bigger city,
 I'd sooner die than face the "serene," that
little patch of green for more than a day.

He smirked but let me have my choice.

That bed afforded the view
 of Constable churches, of a Punjabi grocer,
a car rental and a Tesco,

and it was on this bed
where we managed to do it
for the first time,

using face-cream as lube.

Sometime that year,
the bed in your downtown house
near Battery Park,

that I knew only for a night
while visiting New York,

where I made plans which were
(presciently) smaller than my hands,

where I looked down into your city

where even
the parking-lot at mid-night
seemed unbelievable to me,

where the bed, holding my knees,
and your umber skin, as you slept,
told me that the tense of desire
is always the future,

one in which no plan survives,
no suture holds,
no love keeps,

one in which you leave me, always,
so suddenly and so irrevocably
in grief

that night after night
beds now
are of a kind,

that have very little to do
with sleeping.

In 1995

I was ten and you were
already battling the stars

of a virus, and in the middle
of grocery shopping,

and street pavements
bursting with lilacs,

you lived so close to
dying, that every morning,

when you woke up, it took
two seconds to ascertain, oneself,

and then, one's own.

With the worst behind you,
you said, how can people write

about letting go, as if
it was 'tragic' that they went,

as if their going could not have been averted,
as if, a scale had weighed in the sky,
 
but already you sounded unconvinced
of your own voice.
 
In that year,
I did not even know what sex is,
 
what veins are, except a book - my
father's - on the benefits of herbs, which,
 
on its last pages, talked of stuff
that nobody told me nothing about,
 
talked of erections, semen, power, & something
perverse about a horrifying illness, and how it takes
 
only the select.
 
You said, in those years
of holding that which you did not
 
know, "Reagan let us die,"
with a kind of resignation that
 
without forgiving, already wraps 'letting go'
in a hope, and slips it in the dimension of myth,
 
before sneaking it behind the books on your shelf.
 
Now when friends visit me, and stay for
a day or two, I thank my stars,
 
and when they leave the room, go to the loo,
or run for a morning appointment,
 
I think of you, making what you could,
of someone always going, of someone
 
gifting togetherness as if wrapped in
paisley, light like feathers, resting on the sill,
 
about to go which way I do not know.




(for Mark Doty)

Asian American Poetry Retreat Applications Now Open

In order to help mentor the next generation of Asian American poets, Kundiman sponsors an annual Poetry Retreat in partnership with Fordham University.

During the Retreat, nationally renowned Asian American poets conduct workshops with fellows. Readings, writing circles and informal social gatherings are also scheduled.

Through this Retreat, Kundiman hopes to provide a safe and instructive environment that identifies and addresses the unique challenges faced by emerging Asian American poets. Workshops will not exceed eight students.

This 5-day Retreat takes place from Wednesday to Sunday at Fordham University, Rose Hill, New York City, June 19 - 23, 2013

Applications for the Poetry Retreat are due between December 15 - February 1, 2013

Retreat Faculty: Li-Young Lee, Srikanth Reddy, and Lee Ann Roripaugh
 
For more information on the Asian American Poetry Retreat, visit the Kundiman retreat page.



�I never knew Asian American poetry was so vibrant, so powerful, so incredibly and indelibly written on my soul and across this nation.�
� Neil Aitken



�I discovered a supportive and dynamic community of young writers, deeply engaged with each other�s work, who are constantly giving new meaning to what it is to be an Asian American poet.�
� Phayvanh Luekhamhan



"Kundiman�s support of both literature and community is part of the very spirit and vision of the organization. This can be seen very specifically in their Kavad project and the way it values the lives and experiences of older Asian Americans and understands that the stories of these individuals need to be recorded and made into literature."

� David Mura