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Sex with a Famous Poet
I had sex with a famous poet last night
and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered
because I was married to someone else,
because I wasn’t supposed to have been drinking,
because I was in a fancy hotel room
I didn’t recognize. I would have told you
right off this was a dream, but recently
a friend told me, write about a dream,
lose a reader and I didn’t want to lose you
right away. I wanted you to hear
that I didn’t even like the poet in the dream, that he has
four kids, the youngest one my age, and I find him
rather unattractive, that I only met him once,
that is, in real life, and that was in a large group
in which I barely spoke up. He disgusted me
with his disparaging remarks about women.
He even used the word “Jap”
which I took as a direct insult to my husband who's Asian.
When we were first dating, I told him
“You were talking in your sleep last night
and I listened, just to make sure you didn’t
call out anyone else’s name.” My future-husband said
that he couldn’t be held responsible for his subconscious,
which worried me, which made me think his dreams
were full of blonde vixens in rabbit-fur bikinis,
but he said no, he dreamt mostly about boulders
and the ocean and volcanoes, dangerous weather
he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
And I said, “I dream only of you,”
which was romantic and silly and untrue.
But I never thought I’d dream of another man--
my husband and I hadn’t even had a fight,
my head tucked sweetly in his armpit, my arm
around his belly, which lifted up and down
all night, gently like water in a lake.
If I passed that famous poet on the street,
he would walk by, famous in his sunglasses
and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows,
without so much as a glance in my direction.
I know you’re probably curious about who the poet is,
so I should tell you the clues I’ve left aren’t
accurate, that I’ve disguised his identity,
that you shouldn’t guess I bet it’s him...
because you’ll never guess correctly
and even if you do, I won’t tell you that you have.
I wouldn’t want to embarrass a stranger
who is, after all, probably a nice person,
who was probably just having a bad day when I met him,
who is probably growing a little tired of his fame--
which my husband and I perceive as enormous,
but how much fame can an American poet
really have, let’s say, compared to a rock star
or film director of equal talent? Not that much,
and the famous poet knows it, knows that he’s not
truly given his due. Knows that many
of these young poets tugging on his sleeve
are only pretending to have read all his books.
But he smiles anyway, tries to be helpful.
I mean, this poet has to have some redeeming qualities, right?
For instance, he writes a mean iambic.
Otherwise, what was I doing in his arms.
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Denise Duhamel’s most recent book of poetry is Second Story (Pittsburgh, 2021). Her other titles include Scald; Blowout; Ka-Ching!; Two and Two; Queen for a Day: Selected and New Poems; The Star-Spangled Banner; and Kinky. She is a recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. Duhamel teaches in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.
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What a compelling voyage...
Posted by: reuben m. jackson | December 05, 2021 at 11:33 AM
There’s no way not to try to guess the F. Poet in this marvelous poem! I ruled out Galway Kinnell who otherwise might fill the bill except that he was undeniably handsome…..
Posted by: Clarinda harriss | December 05, 2021 at 11:34 AM
I am falling off my chair with love
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | December 05, 2021 at 11:40 AM
pretty delightful, thanks
Posted by: lally | December 05, 2021 at 12:12 PM
Fantastic!
Posted by: Stacey | December 05, 2021 at 12:22 PM
Time for dreams to come out of the closets.
You know, the closets with long winding hallways with endless buffet tables groaning with--no, I mean, literally groaning--live fish glaring at you with reproachful looks, so you turn to the flamenco dance you walked in with only now she's Margaret Thatcher and she says, "You're being charged by the hour, you know."
Really, dreams are always interesting; dreams with poets in them more so; dreams with sex even more still. Trifecta.
Posted by: Bernard Welt | December 05, 2021 at 01:03 PM
Wonderful poem! Funny -- and all too true.
Posted by: David Lehman | December 05, 2021 at 01:30 PM
I love dreaming and I love poetry. This is a wonderful poem.
Posted by: Eileen | December 05, 2021 at 03:20 PM
Well done, with accurate aim!
Posted by: Beth | December 05, 2021 at 04:05 PM
Yeah, thanks for not kissing n telling! At least with identities disguised--you know I NEVER wear jackets with patches on the elbows. And besides that who sleeps? Got more famous poems to be writ! And hey honey, my name does NOT rhyme with Heavens, anyways! It does rhyme with Hieronymous, as you well know! And I just might be female. Or not even existent. At all at all.
As ever,
Rumi
Posted by: Rumi Ginsberg Plath Vuong O'Kevins | December 05, 2021 at 04:31 PM
This poem chases its own wild dream into the dark back rooms of some poetry salon or slam hell hole, and then rushes back out soaking wet and laughing! thanks for this magnificent poem!
Posted by: Bill Nevins | December 05, 2021 at 04:35 PM
Good poem. Thank you, Denise.
Posted by: Eric B. | December 05, 2021 at 11:37 PM
This skillful poet seems to make the reader a psychoanalyst in whose presence the dreamer goes from topic to topic by free association, circling around the dream and ending with a question that says the work has only begun.
Posted by: Peter Kearney | December 07, 2021 at 08:46 PM
Crap,it was my husband, wasn't it? I can tell because he's not a poet & not famous, but he IS head-swimmingly handsome. Now I can't sleep. Thanks a lot.
(& thanks A LOT)
Posted by: Elinor Nauen | December 12, 2021 at 02:05 PM
The guessing game is timely and true.
Posted by: april havoc | January 07, 2022 at 07:23 PM
A mean iambic! Delightful, Denise.
Posted by: Jeffrey Cyphers Wright | February 05, 2022 at 09:41 PM