skadisprawl
A-Sitting on a Gate
"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls for wheels of hansom-cabs." -- Danny | transmasculine | he/him/his
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Sometimes a Son’s Greatest Fear is Becoming His Father
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This month is the one year anniversary of posting my poem “Condolences” to TikTok and Instagram, where it amassed millions of likes and tens of thousands of comments.
Since, people have used the poem for adaptive art pieces, short plays, books, and class work. For your piece of art to be transformed into another…it’s difficult to describe.
After several rejections from poetry publications a decade ago, I decided to post my work online instead. The responses were overwhelming. I realized that an official publication doesn’t make you a poet. Writing poetry does, and bonus points if you manage to resonate with just one other soul who needed to hear what you needed to say.
I was utterly taken aback by the response to this piece. People have asked me many times to explain it, but from the response it was clear that the meaning can be explicated with a little time.
Some people who didn’t understand it until it was explained were angry when it came together. It wasn’t written for them.
I’m only grateful that it reached the people who needed it.
I feel that the imagery is part of the piece, but I know not everyone can or cares to listen to a video. Here is the poem:
———————
They buried a girl in my hometown today.
“A young woman, gone too soon, in the prime of her life,” they all said.
My friends and I all knew her. We grew up together.
We were in all the same classes and hobbies and we made up games together at recess.
But none of us went to her funeral. We weren’t invited, because the people planning it didn’t think we’d understand. They said it wasn’t our loss.
So we got together for drinks. We laughed all morning and played card games all day.
At 4 o’clock, we heard the church bells. We saw that long, sad procession of cars stretch like a creek through town, up the cemetery hill.
We heard strange rumors that night, that the casket was empty. That they put it hollow in the ground.
So we went to the plot first thing in the morning. They buried her empty box next to her dad, down the row from an estranged aunt she never really knew all that well.
There wouldn’t be a stone for months, but the little placard had my name on it. But not the one I go by these days.
“How strange,” we all said. “What a waste of good crying.”
All of this mourning for me, and I was down the street the whole time, laughing and drinking.
But some people will never understand. They’d rather plan a funeral than learn a new name.
My friend said she felt sorry for them, in some small way.
What a sad notion—to lose a son who never died—
and a daughter who never lived.
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There is so much amazing about this. It's an archeological museum in 530 BCE or so. Also, the exhibits are labeled in three languages. Also they apparently had replicas on display for some things, much like modern museums do.
Humanity has not really changed that much, and some of the ways in which we haven't changed are really good.
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One more joke hate: You may claim to be a woman but biologically you are a featherless biped and thus a man.
Finally a good argument for why I'm actually a man
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he's built like an unsecured ikea bookshelf and brother, am i a toddler
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Hiking Adventures part 10
And I'll let you enjoy that terrifying last frame
Part 9 here
Part 11 here
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Hiking adventures part 7
With real pictures from the Lac des Corbeaux (Raven's lake) !
Part 6 here
Part 8 here
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