Poetry Podcast: The Dark Apartment

I miss reading out poetry. When I was still in college, it was something I did off and on and got away with. You discover more of a poem when you read it out aloud. You end up replacing terms that you think are more appropriate. You curse the poet for those extra punctuation marks. You wonder why the poet hurried through the third verse. Struggling with the rhythm, you then find the poem.

So here’s me reading James Schuyler’s The Dark Apartment.

You wonder why a poet would write about The Dark Apartment.

James Schuyler has to be one of my favourite poets, despite the fact that I have read very little by him. From the piece I linked to some remarks on his poetry.

Largely exempt from the daily grind, Schuyler vastly prefers attending to the unrehearsed incident and the play of the mind as it moves with its intrinsic vigor through observation, association, and reflection. Such variegated activity of the mind serves to direct, if not precisely to organize, the poem on scales both fine and large.

The recent conversation about infidelity in one of the posts reminded me of The Morning of The Poem which won him a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1981. His poetry is a stark portrayal of homosexual love and the pain of honest sexual statements. From another post, this is how I first chanced upon James Schuyler’s poetry.

The poem…

Coming from the deli
a block away today I
saw the UN building
shine and in all the
months and years I’ve
lived in this apartment
I took so you and I
would have a place to
meet I never noticed
that it was in my view.

I remember very well
the morning I walked in
and found you in bed
with X. He dressed
and left. You dressed
too. I said, “Stay
five minutes.” You
did. You said, “That’s
the way it is.” It
was not much of a surprise.

Then X got on speed
and ripped off an
antique chest and an
air conditioner, etc.
After he was gone and
you had changed the
Segal lock, I asked
you on the phone, “Can’t
you be content with
your wife and me?” “I’m
not built that way,”
you said. No surprise.

Now, without saying
why, you’ve let me go.
You don’t return my
calls, who used to call
me almost every evening
when I lived in the coun-
try. “Hasn’t he told you
why?” “No, and I doubt he
ever will.” Goodbye. It’s
mysterious and frustrating.

How I wish you would come
back! I could tell
you how, when I lived
on East 49th, first
with Frank and then with John,
we had a lovely view of
the UN building and the
Beekman Towers. They were
not my lovers, though.
You were. You said so.

It’s been a while since I read out poetry. My throat maybe a bit dry and scratchy. The nervousness may show as well. But Bah!

[audio:http://www.archive.org/download/readingpoetry/darkapartment_jamesschuyler_64kb.mp3%5D
To listen click here.