Larry Dean Hamilton, one of our regular
contributors continues to reveal dimensions of himself this issue with
his epic poem, "Wreck of the G.D.K."And he reviews Bazhe's Damages.
Larry Dean Hamilton holds a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from The University of Texas at Austin. Previously on the editorial staff of Time-Life Books, Larry was a key organizer and participant in Houston Gay Conference 1982. He led the way in establishing and organizing Matagorda County AIDS Awareness. Larry, a sometime poet, treks along a sandy shore, mindful of accumulated litter and debris—mindful of earlier footsteps. Larry's other books, besides A Gathering of Angels, include three books of poetry: Hotel Chelsea and the Sound, Late Autumn Debris, and Love is Orange.
Larry can be reached
by e-mail at larry@sigmalogobooks.com.
More
information about him and his work can be found at www.sigmalogobooks.com.
  The Poet
Looks at Damages...Damages by Bazhe iUniverse Star, 2004 ISBN 0-595-29714-5 Paperback, 324 pages. Occasionally there comes a book that distinctly impresses—by its language, by the scope of its body, by the depth of its telling, by the awareness of its voice. Damages is such a book, and Bazhe, its author, is such a voice. Bazhe speaks, “...Our lives are glassy...yet blurry and brittle without the honesty of the light, and very damaging without the Truth as the Sun.” I am compelled to turn the page and enter Bazhe’s world, compelled to seek Bazhe. Damages is compelling. It is an autobiographical memoir, recounting significant events in the life of its author. More than a telling of his story, it is an experiencing of his life, along¬side Bazhe. He allows his reader a closeness, an intimacy, not often seen in print. His voice is calm and clear, imparting strength and assurance. Damages is a work of artistic seduction; Bazhe, the seducer; I, his reader, the seduced. I find myself unable to distinguish the writer from the work. Bazhe’s writing is crisp and articulate; his work, well crafted. From our initial encounter, at his home in New Jersey as he receives a telephone call from his Mother, informing him of his Father’s death, Bazhe is a warm and congenial companion. He welcomes me into his life, at a time usually considered crisis, and he introduces me to his family, in very much the manner of a trusted, innermost friend. I find myself in unfamiliar surroundings, in a land where East meets West. An imperfect image of great empire—Macedonia, Alexander the Great—drifts through the story, a background of dust on the wind swept into the present. Amid persons who are strangers to me, Bazhe keeps me closely at his side, confiding in me while putting me at ease, making of me his intimate. I am drawn closer to Bazhe. Details begin to emerge, a kaleidoscopic piecing together of Bazhe’s life; rather, of events of Bazhe’s life that paint an ever-enlarging picture that spreads across a deepening canvas. The strokes are bold and the colors vivid. This is not a static scene. As images form, they skew; the glass through which I am seeing shifts, the images shifting with it. Things are not as they seem; what is seen is merely perceived in one light, much as the sun passing overhead renders a scene and its images in moving patterns of light and dark. Shades of meaning within changing patterns reflect Bazhe, resonate with a sense of Bazhe’s life. Why are we compelled to tell our stories; why are we compelled to listen? Do we seek to connect with or to separate from some primitive neurosis? Or, simply do we hide within the nakedness of another, calming our fear and assuaging our anxiety through the skin of another? I plunge my hand alongside that of Bazhe into the rich earth of a neglected garden. Together, our hand reaches deeply into the earth, until suddenly we grasp the root of a large tree. This is the garden, once kept pristine, where we could not hide from Father; the garden where naked before Father we first experience a strange, white fluid shot onto our body from his.... Father, who could alter his temper from anger to mirth as easily as he could grant or withhold favor or punishment, seemingly at his whim; Father, to whom all obedience was demanded and given, and through whom reward and forgiveness seemed hung from a thread. A childhood seen by those on the outside as one of privilege and prestige, but a childhood experienced as one of isolation and loneliness—the glass is brittle and the image distorts. Mother, at whose bosom there is warmth and refuge, nurtures and encourages, and forges a bond that becomes a bridge into and out of a world that confines and imprisons. The child, a boy of such beauty that for the amusement of others bets are laid as to his sex, is baffled and amused as his garments are stripped amid the flow of cash. A time much later, a wealthy man for his amusement will seduce the boy’s gender and attempt to have him surgically emasculated. In this deceit, the boy makes off with the jewels. Mother is diagnosed with cancer, her body making war on itself, even as the people of Bazhe’s ancient homeland make war on each other. Chaos is the rule, greed and corruption the exception. The search for his biological mother ends and Bazhe spills out the story of his life to her. She, Mila, is for me an intrusion. Yet, it is through her Bazhe’s story is told, through her Bazhe’s life began; even though she can claim no part of Bazhe’s life. While Bazhe pours out his story in an upstairs room, in a downstairs room Kostadina’s life is wasting. It is a strange juxtaposition, another bending of the glass—the woman, who as a girl gave birth to a child fathered by an unknown assailant, secluded in the house of the woman who cradled and cared for the child from infant to man; the woman who gave Bazhe life, the woman who gave him away, learning more of the inner man than the woman who watched him grow from infant to man. There is no clear horizon. The vista is suspended above death. I am drawn deeply within Bazhe, as smoke from the cigarette inhaled at his lips. Bazhe surrounds me, as smoke exhaled from his mouth. Still, I am not satisfied. I have a hunger for more of Bazhe. The subtext of Damages draws me into deeper dialog; the metaphor, one of an outdated religion and an out-of-touch church clinging to a primitive, patriarchal theism irrelevant to the Twenty First Century.1 The Almighty Father is dead. During His decline, Mother assumed greater power. Now, Mother is dying, her body corrupt and feeding on itself. Those near her are self-seeking, in their greed stripping her frail body of trinkets before she has become a corpse. The old traditions that cemented the fabric of society are no longer functional. People pay lip service, more from habit; but no one still believes. The business of life buckles under a burden of behemoth bureaucracy. Society is breaking up, factions pitted against one another by reason of presumed differences rather than coming together under assumed commonality. The Son, stepping boldly into life and embracing the fullness of Self, expands into the fullness of Being. The Virgin is finally seen as an icon, an idol of unfounded adoration. What remains is Bazhe and his sense of love, constant amid chaos. The true gold could not be taken from Mother. Damages is a powerful presence, a personal journey that demonstrates anew the unique spiritual depth that can arise from the gay experience. Bazhe is a voice that explores that spiritual depth. His talent carries an honesty and a strength that commands attention. I am caught in reflection of Bazhe’s words, “My vision of love is not an experiment.... [O]ur teeth have punctured each other’s bodies.... No one can kill us in love.” __________ 1. Insight into the Religious Right and Moral Majority, relative to society and particularly as impacting the GLBT community, is focused by John Shelby Spong in “Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism,” and in “Why Christianity Must Change or Die.” |
Editor's Note: The following "Epic" poem is a tale of love and loss, told through a metaphorical ship, her crew, and the sea. The first three stanzas are a metrical but non-rhyming prologue serving to introduce the reminiscences and state of mind of the narrator. Then follows the body of the work, skillfully rendered in rhyme and meter, demonstrating what such poetry can become in gifted hands.  Larry
Dean Hamilton Wreck of the G.D.K. I’ll always return to the summer sun And the sweltering mask of earth’s hot breath And a wind that scorches sunny seas. I’ll hold in my hands my heart ripped open And hope to receive one grain of salt more. One time before when I thought I was home I dying lay stretched ’cross a great salt plain Where dream never dared hope water would join A dry cracked surface ’neath bleached white bones, Nor dared hope dream sweet drops of dew. Alone with no thought of a morrow No wish to see a new sun dawn; Eyes grown glassy, searching no more And a heart bleeding blood snow white and cold To a soul pulsating no more for life, A shape I took at first to be The ship of death come now for me Sailed in on searing, scorching steam And hailed me board for lands undream’d. That ship, for me, new life and destiny. A boy made up her one-man crew— Blond hair trimm’d short and eyes so blue, He welcomed me aboard with a friendly smile And beckoned me cast off all the while— With me on board she now had two. From deck we hoisted her mainsail white In a burst of sunlight dazzling bright; From the center yardarm where made fast, Creaking, groaning, crawling skyward on the mast, The sail filled full of wind’s own might. Her crew to the bow side by side Making ready to set sail with the tide Hoisted high her flying jib Made fast with a line to a forward rib— And the salt air called from oceans wide. Lines cast off and the anchor weighed, Our journey began ’neath a sky of jade. The blond first mate our ship he steered; Topside went I to the mast I feared Soon should break lest lines be payed. Water so blue and the sky so clear And hardly a ripple was there to hear. Our mainsail caught the wind with ease And the forward jib was the first to tease The breeze that washed away all fear. Our ship on a forward course set straight Sailed with ease through an unseen gate; With a steady breeze from the South that blew, The blond and I, her crew, were two On board who knew no hate. The sun rose high up in the sky And long we watched it pass us by Til soon it fell too near the sea And play’d its last with rays of glee To end the day without a sigh. Our ship lay still beneath the moon And drank full deep the sea’s perfume. It filled each drop of soft night’s dew With silvered love we knew was true And, like a rose, almost in bloom. Our cheeks grew tan as on we sailed Across the home where life first dwelled; By noon a song, at night a prayer, And every dawn our bodies bare Refreshed themselves as day prevailed. Our course was straight full many a day Before we saw the planets’ sway And felt the tide beneath us swell Into a thing more like a hell That tears and burns as childlike play. Too deep in life were we to quit That ship whose log we both had writ; To late to turn that ship around Retracing winds now long since found Engulfed in those that did submit. Too far away were we to turn That ship to where our hearts did yearn And seek the port we left behind, Upon whose shore we had designed A thing we could not now unlearn. The sea’s own might and wrath became A thund’ring howl that fears no name, And soon as splintering our mast Would strike at life, not first nor last, For all and one are but the same. With hemp we lashed us to the deck And from each side our eyes last met While reaching hands grasped only dark As with a crash she split apart And left alone each piece of wreck. And tossed and turned and rolled at will Upon the sea I loved until At last my wounds her heart had stung, She gently lapped them with her tongue And shed a tear; then all was still. My weary soul she pushed ashore And quietly left me when she tore Away the ropes which held me fast. I slept awhile and then at last Bewept the love I would see no more. I came to know the fear of love That sees below while we’re above. The search to find the other part, If he lives still, commands my heart; And search the sea I must, I know. For our romance, it was the sea. She courted us, and her did we. And if we three again should meet, A stronger love we’d surely greet— She’d join her hands with him and me. Wreck of the G.D.K. Copyright © 1969, 2004 Larry Dean Hamilton. All rights reserved. Printed and used by special permission of the author. |