This originally appeared in American Athenaeum, Fall 2012 CLOSER by Christopher Soden When I was eighteen, in 1976, I was an acting student at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. I loved the theatre. I had barely started to discover the joys of writing poetry and succumbing to the ferocity and splendor of writers like: Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Phillip Levine, Adrienne Rich. But I was curious and filled with creative energy. The first time I stepped into Jack Myers’ classroom, he must have thought I was lost. “This is Intro to Poetry,” he explained. I nodded and found my seat. I had no idea that by the end of the semester, he would be asking for a private word. Certain he was calling me on the carpet, for the purpose of banishment, I felt like I was being summoned to the Principal’s Office. Much to my amazement, the first words out of his mouth were, “You need to be writing poetry.” Jack was to become my first and most influential mentor, guiding me for the rest of my time at SMU. He was always forthright about my strengths and weaknesses, what worked and what needed fixing. He always treated me like an equal. I have always agonized over my poetry because I have a strong desire to shape meticulous, dense, resonant poetry with careful, purposeful line-breaks and an implacable subtext. There is, of course, nothing wrong with this, but, like any other writer, I can also fully appreciate that striving for flawless execution, without absorbing content, is pointless. You must have both, in order to invite the reader into your realm, and keep them there. Whenever I read a poem by Levine, for instance, I was so lost in his intensely emotional, immediate narratives, it was only by careful examination afterward that I realized how deliberately chosen each word, each image, each space on the page was. So I knew it wasn’t enough to have an exciting premise or bizarre anecdote or refined, intelligent craft, it all had to work together. I am going to confide in you now, and tell you that I will be fifty-four in May, and that it never occurred to me when I started out, that it would be thirty-five years until I saw my first collection, Closer, published. My path has always been somewhat crooked (to put it kindly) but I labored over the years, attending and leading workshops, going to conferences, residencies and retreats, working with more established poets. I had been entering contests, sending queries and circulating manuscripts for so long, that by the time I received an offer from Rebel Satori/Queermojo Press, I assumed there must’ve been some mistake. I didn’t always hear the word, “no,” but this was the first interest I’d had in a full-length manuscript. It took awhile for the news to seep into my cynical consciousness. But there’s something else I need to confide as well. Some writers are able to create poems without ever touching on their personal lives. For whatever reason, this has not been my inclination. I am not sure how much the term “confessional” is still considered relevant (and not every biography in Closer is my own) but this is, at least at present, my dominant approach. Much of my private life includes my struggles as a queer guy, navigating his path to self-value and maleness, in the seething climate of American culture. My poetry is very frank, and perhaps, more detailed than some might prefer, but I feel this is essential to achieving the authenticity and a level of truth necessary to creating meaningful literature. I don’t negate the value of loftiness and spirituality. I consider myself a very spiritual man. But I also believe it is sometimes crucial to explore the realms of virility and manhood with unflinching, unashamed candor. It is my sincere and fervent desire to provide a microscope into the life of one gay man, without vanity or diminishment, to create a sense of connectedness between myself and other gay men, other men, and certainly, of course, the rest of the world. I want to fight the ridiculous and intolerant who continue to characterize our lives without sympathy, insight or permission. But above all, I want to earn the right to express all this through the demands of literary quality, accuracy and precision. In other words, I want the truth, the raw, urgent, untainted truth of my content and craft as a method to validate my poetry. It’s not enough to be honest or interesting. You must find a way to break new ground, to speak to those who might not necessarily share your beliefs, to invite participation of some kind, whether empathic or hostile. I hope and pray that many, many people, who do not share my orientation will read Closer and get a more intimate, powerful understanding of the impact of homoerotic radiance in a man’s life. Why should you read it Closer? Because it represents thirty-five years of pushing, revising, striving to distill the best possible poetry in every sense of the word. It represents thirty-five years of persistence, shaking off rejection and frustration, stripping away any armor that might come between my readers and my aching, scintillating, view of the world. Not every story you find in Closer is autobiographical (though many are) but every one fearlessly aims for its slant on the actual world. Not every scenario in Closer is life-affirming, anymore than every hetero story is. Sometimes we learn from our excruciating episodes as well. Closer is a compilation of poems that document my journey through the crucible of American manhood, offering a rich, multifaceted experience of life, without sham or agenda. It is for everybody.
Posted on: Mon, 24 Mar 2014 19:39:44 +0000
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