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Archaic Torso of Me Too
There was the guy in the next room
screaming he wanted some goddamn sugar.
There was the lady who my first night
conscious tried to get me to pray while
a falcon-headed shade carried off
my biowaste, hexes welting the walls—
she was also a hallucination. How
I was strapped to the face of a sundial,
names of drugs like archangels,
the breathing machine pulling in
an Army-Navy game and tolling
like Big Ben. Hovering beside me,
another me entirely free of pain
like the idea of a rainbow beside
a fading rainbow. Huff of alcohol,
fentanyl, urine, red beets. The one
I made leave because he couldn’t stop
acting triumphant. It wasn’t only death
in costume. But always there was my darling
who’d kiss me even though the pulse-spike
would bring nurses running.
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Dean Young was born in Columbia, Pennsylvania, the very place that Coleridge and Southey were thinking of founding their commune. Maybe. He is also maybe currently living in Cincinnati where he is trying to fit a two-bedroom house into a loft apartment. His, hopefully next book, completing his IT’S ALIVE!! Trilogy, Creature Feature is almost finished. Then from there on in it’s all petal drop blast radius.
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Saint Elizabeth of Hungary bringing food for the inmates of a hospital. Oil painting by Adam Elsheimer, ca. 1598
This poem is a stunner. If we must suffer and questionably heal, let us all be comforted by darlings who spike our pulses!
Posted by: Bill Nevins | March 20, 2022 at 05:45 PM
Cannot wait for this master neo surrealist’s hopefully next book. How he manages so powerfully to fuse life and death direness, hallucination, the gritty holiness of quotidian things and the saving grace of humor into this heartbreaking, late-reveal love poem only the muses know!
Posted by: Amy Gerstler | March 20, 2022 at 06:33 PM
Ditto -- what Amy said above.
Thank you for the calm space of acceptance sketched so beautifully in "Archaic Torso of Me Too."
Posted by: Diane Ward | March 20, 2022 at 07:46 PM
You always delight me with your selections Terence. This one is a miracle. Thank you.
Posted by: Stacey | March 20, 2022 at 07:53 PM
Thanks, Stacey.
Posted by: Terence Winch | March 20, 2022 at 08:00 PM
What a Sunday treat. Any hallucination with the Army-Navy Game has me.
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | March 20, 2022 at 08:42 PM
Splendid from the title on. And what a beautiful painting you've chosen for it, Terence.
Posted by: David Lehman | March 20, 2022 at 09:13 PM
Can I think of this fascinating poem as a torso sandwich? Between two slices of clear English sentences comes a welter of hallucinations and impressions in jumbled phrases. If so, this sandwich comes with its own dessert, such a happy way to finish.
Posted by: Peter Kearney | March 20, 2022 at 09:17 PM
Good choice, Terence. I realized as I read I need 'welting' a 'connection between a breathing machine and an army-navy game,' and a 'huff of alcohol' in a poem. Thanks to Dean (& you) for the pick-me-up! Now, where is that nurse & what is she carrying in her arms?
Posted by: Robert McDowell | March 20, 2022 at 10:53 PM
I’m almost physically stunned by this poem. It takes me over the top of my previous admiration of dean young’s work.
Posted by: Clarinda harriss | March 20, 2022 at 10:58 PM
As in flickering light, until the glow of the last three lines.
Posted by: Beth J. | March 21, 2022 at 07:39 AM
There's always a goddamn guy in the next room screaming. Great poem.
Posted by: Mike Murphy | March 21, 2022 at 08:41 AM
Robert: thanks for your response.
Posted by: Terence Winch | March 21, 2022 at 09:52 AM
Wonderful poem. A mixture of reality and hallucinations clearly pictured. The accompanying art is beautiful.
Posted by: Eileen | March 21, 2022 at 10:30 AM
A remarkably acrobatic poem that opens our eyes wider with each turn into a new line. I've admired Dean Young's work for years, his capacity to laugh and ache both, often, as in this time, at the same time. Thanks for showing us this one, Terence!
Posted by: Don Berger | March 21, 2022 at 10:54 AM
Good poem!
I'm left wondering about the story of the guy who wanted a lil' sugar. Hope he's okay, too.
Posted by: Christine | March 21, 2022 at 11:01 AM
Thank you. The title alone has had me giggling for a couple of days.
At first I thought, "Man, if I see one more goddamned poem about St Elizabeth of Hungary . . . " but you made it work.
Posted by: Bernard Welt | March 21, 2022 at 12:13 PM
nevin's nailed my response, as did all of the above
Posted by: lally | March 21, 2022 at 01:43 PM
Don: Thanks---glad you liked it.
Posted by: Terence Winch | March 21, 2022 at 01:59 PM
Wow. What a tough piece of work. Thanks! Phyllis
Posted by: Phyllis Rosenzweig | March 21, 2022 at 04:42 PM
Wow & wow to all the comments too. Thank you, Mr. Winch, for every week making my heart race.
Posted by: Elinor Nauen | March 22, 2022 at 01:20 PM
Thanks for the comment, Elinor. I'm glad you're out there.
Posted by: Terence Winch | March 22, 2022 at 05:32 PM