Local Haunts - David White (Pedlar Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Local Haunts.  David White.  Pedlar Press.  St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador.  2019.

There is all the sad glamour you are every going to need in the first section of David White's Local Haunts.  The first section of this book, titled "Port Franks, Looking Towards Kettle Point" makes poetry out of distressing and disturbing childhood travesties.  There is an electric current running underneath this section, when you are reading Local Haunts you can feel it hum.

In White's poems coming of age comes at a cost.  Some of these poems hit the reader like a punch and others like a weep.  Either way that hum keeps you plugged in.

For Today's book of poetry there is some common ground between David White and myself.  The first section of Local Haunts reflect some of White's experience growing up in and around London, Ontario and having a father in the military.  Many of White's locations are familiar to my childhood self.  My father was a member of the RCR (Royal Canadian Regiment) and stationed in London, where I was born just two short years after Mr. White.  Today's book of poetry was born at St. Joseph's Hospital, London, Ontario.  I have memories of Wolseley Barracks.  Apparently my misbehaviour was a factor in the formation of rules about children watching movies on the base.  Enduring the beach at Iperwash was a regular happening in my family, I enjoyed it about as much as Mr. White, so not much at all.  Although our complaints were somewhat different.

Narcissus

Dragged out of the bathtub, held there

naked, dripping, suspended in my Daddy's grip

before the full-length mirror,

six years old, skin and bone,

bruises all on display,

scrawny genitals shriveled up,

while he wails away beyond words:

You fuckin' little brat! Goddamn skinny little puke.

People'll think we don't feed you, you god-

damn little bastard.

Bone dance of throttled skeleton

held there, purples turning black.

One last thrust. I'm flat against the mirror,

face and body grotesque,

a dangling distortion, more

emancipated Third World child

than suitably fattened North American,

Daddy screaming, beer breath

hot on my shoulder:

fuckin' skinny little son of a bitch.

💥💥💥

David White is gay, but Today's book of poetry would never mention such a thing unless it was relevant to the poetry.  In the remaining two-thirds of Local Haunts much of his poetry concerns his journey in a world that can still be frightfully hostile.  Yet for Today's book of poetry there enough moments of splendid joy, optimism and celebration in Local Haunts, to entice all you poetry babies.  White's community, like all others, looking for love and happiness, and rightly so.

The second and third chapters/elements of Local Haunts share and revel in the experience of searching for and sharing love.  Entirely admirable end game plan.  

Days of 1986

Last time I saw Greg Van Patter,

Gay farmer, he was walking,

hobbling with a cane

past Kingsmill's Department Store.

That was out of character, but soon,

too soon, he was dying of AIDS.

I first met Greg during a summer gift:

homemade ice cream

on the lawns of Eldon House

his--suited, for the party--

supple body, perfectly fitted,

consecrated to toil,

laugh lines caressed

by sun on furrowed fields, eyes

flared as his glance

irresistibly engaged,

his smile impeccable

through the extended evening blue.

I revelled in the musk

of his event horizon,

those moments

of erotic singularity

amidst all the dainty

Eldon House Garden Partiers,

those ends of June when Chris,

Museum Director,

rounded up all his friends

and, unbeknownst to the Board,

surreptitiously put on the biggest

"A-List" Gay party in town.

Gone now so many of the revellers

who danced away those evenings

as the dusk embraced

then erased their dreams.

💥💥💥

There are so many fine and precise moments in Local Haunts, whether White is in a happy poem or a sad one, his constant attention leaves the attentive reader with that little jaw drop moment with expedient frequency.

Today's book of poetry will return to David White's excellent Local Haunts in a moment.  We wanted to report that our readership just surpassed 800,000 and we're pretty excited about that here in our offices.  Our new intern, Tomas, surprised us with a cake, eight candles on top.  It was a great way to start the day.  The cake, vanilla with vanilla icing, side of whipped cream, was delightful.  That's the good news.

The less good news is that Today's book of poetry has been sad of late.  One of our greatest poetry friends, David Clewell, died quite recently and unexpectedly.  Today's book of poetry had spoken to David just a few days before his demise but David barely mentioned that he was ill.  David Clewell, former Missouri State Poet Laureate, had been a guiding light in recent years.  His knowledge of poetry and poets simply superior to any I had previously encountered.  David's generosity of spirit and action filled Today's book of poetry's heart with joy AND added ludicrously wonderful additions to the Today's book of poetry poetry library.

Our good friend Michael Hewko died last week.  If you knew about Hewko you knew he was simply the best at what he did.  But it is unlikely you ever heard of Michael.  He was the genuine curmudgeon.  K and I have artwork by Michael Hewko in several rooms of our house, he painted all the walls, built all the bookcases in my study and the permanent ones in the rest of our house, he designed and built our bathroom, and he was my curmudgeonly old friend.  The very first art I ever bought was from Michael Hewko.  It hangs in our bedroom.  Oh yes, he designed and built a sliding shelf that fits over our bed, built it out of old doors.  The man was a certain type of genius and those of us who loved him now have that big hole where he used to grumble.

Death is coming to us all, no doubt about that shit.  And my sadness is certainly no worse than yours.  But this particular double hit, following a year of funerals and grief, was simply staggering.  Today's book of poetry is looking forward to getting back on track, yesterday's surprising Ottawa sun storm of delight was a good step.

Reading David White's Local Haunts is exactly the poetry kick in the ass that Today's book of poetry wanted/needed to get our train back on the tracks.  Here's some more:

Almost As If

     It was never easy being a homosexual.

                                        -Stephen Sondheim

and it's almost as if I'm cruising Mannahatta,

arm in arm with Walt Whitman,

searching every passing eye

for resonant desire,

searching for the one

I could cling to,

electric, adhesive,

spontaneous genital combustion,

and it's almost as if I'm holding

Hart Crane's hand,

to keep him from leaping

from the ocean liner's deck

into the Gulf of Mexico.

"Goodbye. Goodbye, everybody," he cries,

and the ship sails on towards

the desolation of America,

and it's almost as if I'm howling

with Allen Ginsberg

while the best minds of my generation

are destroyed by the madness

of yet another grasping, greedy,

hypocritical, evangelical,

insincere abomination

of Capital,

and it's almost as if I'm standing

beside Marsha P. Johnson

outside the Stonewall Inn

those early morning hours.

June 28, 1969, grieving

the death of Judy Garland and shouting

"Gay Power!"

before a billy club strikes her head,

handcuffs encircle her wrists,

and it's almost as if I'm demonstrating

with ACT UP

at the AIDS Conference in Montreal

June 4, 1989,

chanting "Silence = Death,"

reading the Montreal Manifesto

(and what do I mean, "almost?"

I was there,

chanting, carrying my placard),

and my body's hanging,

broken, in Wyoming

on the fence beside Matthew Shepard,

October 12th, 1998,

pistol-whipped face

a red sea of blood

except where tears

river down his dying cheeks:

he was finally, October 26, 2018,

twenty years after his death,

laid to rest in Washington

Cathedral, and I'm attending

the marriage of friends

who've been living together for decades

but only now can legally seal their bonds

and live the dream they've held on to

all these unacknowledged years,

and I'm maintaining vigilance

against the rising tide

of far-right ignorance

seeking once again

to repeal our future.

💥💥💥

All of you poetry babies, thank you so much for 800,000 hits, Today's book of poetry certainly appreciates it.  We would like to thank each and every one of you personally.  In lieu of that we will continue to bring you quality poetry at just the right price.

If you would like to interact with Today's book of poetry we are sending out a challenge:  send us your favourite book of poetry you don't think we have in the stacks.  Best entry will receive two Crying Charlies and one night's stay in the Stuart Ross Guest + Reading Room, transportation not included.

Our mailing address remains:

Michael Dennis/Today's book of poetry

111 Dagmar Avenue

Ottawa, Ontario

Canada

K1L 5T3

So Today's book of poetry is happy to be back in the saddle, happier still that we can bring you titles like Local Haunts by David White.  A big, big, big thanks goes out to the publishers, like Pedlar Press, who keep Today's book of poetry in business by sending us their best.

David White

ABOUT THE POET

David White was a participant in Renga: a collaborative poem (Brick Books, 1980).  In 1994, in completion of his Ph.D., he wrote A Territory Not Yet On The Map: Relocating Gay Aestheticism In The Age Of AIDS.  His first solo collection of poems is The Lark Ascending (Pedlar Press, 2017).  Local Haunts is his second collection.  For many years he taught Theatre History and Writing at Fanshawe College.  He lives in London, Ontario.

pedlarpress.com

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