Reading My Friends, #7

Reading My Friends, #7

Welcome to Reading My Friends.

This is Lyman Grant, coming to you from the 4 Door Lounge, my backyard study in Harrisonburg, Virginia, deep in the heart of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley.

Thank you for joining me for the seventh installment of our podcast.  Remember you can subscribe on Substack or find us on the web at 4doorlounge.com.  I also post reminders on Facebook, so befriend me, why don’t you?

If you listened to episode #5, you might remember that I read poems in which Alan Berecka addressed three of our mutual friends. One of those friends was Larry D. Thomas. This week, I have been reading Larry book, The Fraternity of Oblivion. Larry is a prolific poet and has published a great number of books. By my count, which is probably incorrect, there are 14 books and 14 chapbooks. This book has sat in my bookshelves for years and I had never read it. Now I have.

Before I read one of the poems in The Fraternity of Oblivion for you, I feel compelled to chat a bit about Larry’s poems, in general. Larry is an elected member of the prestigious Texas Institute of Letters, and think often thought of as a “Texas Poet,” you know, in quotes, meaning he writes about grandma, barbecue, cactus, barbed wire, and rattlesnakes. And thus he does.  But his range of topics is actually immense: lighthouses, Mississippi cotton, apricots, circuses, art museums, Maine lobstermen. And in today’s book: bikers—you know, those tattooed men on Harleys with bleach-blonde women holding on behind them. The roar, the danger. The Fraternity of Oblivion is a hard book, a dark book, and perhaps, as Nietzsche might say, an exercise of staring into the abyss.  Be forewarned—this book is not for those seeking roses and lemonade.

Here's a poem from the middle of the book: “Their Own Business.”  One of the lighter ones.

At a roadside park,
he nudges her breast,
hears a dark rumble,
and sees them
in his rear view mirror
killing their bikes
just feet away,
minding their own business.
They need not
say a word or do
a thing unusual.
He locks his door,
rolls up his windows.
He sees in the flesh
of a huge right arm
a menagerie
of black human symbols.
She sees hard bodies
dancing in the shade 
of full beards.
He starts his car
and steals away,
his mistress roused,
his stunned sex
cooling, shrinking.

If I remember correctly, Larry was an English major, but one who got diverted into a real career in adult criminal justice and the probation system.  So he has a professional and personal knowledge of the men and women he writes about in this book.

Here’s the first poem in the book, “Rite,” which jolts us into the fraternity.

In late night fog
his eyes mist
beneath black goggles
for the imminence
of his colors.
Close behind him
on his wide-
open Harley
rides his woman,
musing her fate
as a chapter sheep.
He'll share her
in the dunes
with each dark stranger,
and already sees
clusters of hard stars
churning in turn
in the winged skull
of each moonlit back
and their sheep-woman
rising from the dunes
sown with the rich,
chapter seed
of blood brethren.

I hope you can hear in my reading, Larry’s mastery of the English phrasal unit.  Schooled deeply in Williams Carlos Williams’ variable foot and the art of enjambment, Larry’s brief narratives, instant photos, fall down the page with a calm directness.  And then the richness of language nails the last one or two lines.  Done.

“They Left His Face”

a mesh of red welts.
They left him
for dead
in the bar's dark
parking lot
where he wakes
but can't move,
his denim vest stuck
to the black bloodstains
of old Harleys.
He still feels
the frigid metal
of each thick chain.
Yet another tooth
dribbles from his lips,
and he grunts
a scant smile
just for the colors
he shielded,
till he lost
consciousness,
with jutting, shattered
shoulder blades.

I am not sure if The Fraternity of Oblivion is available anywhere.  Published in 2008 by Timberline Press in Fulton, Missouri, my copy is one of 250 letterpress books.  Before I close, however, I just want to say that I have deeply appreciated my friendship with Larry. To me, he has shown his sweet soul, his vast knowledge of poetry, his love of the sounds of the English language, his daily dedication to craft, and his bravery in exploring all corners of the human and animal moral universe.  

We will end with “That Glorious Crash.”

Sans helmet
he rides the night
ever fast,
his hair the feathers

of hawks diving
even faster,
till he and the wind
are nothing but murmurs

of the same truth,
faster still
till his bike gives way
to the quiet pavement

and he's airborne
like a fat, wingless crow
hurtling to earth
for that glorious crash

when human bones break
to give marrow
a gift of night air
and torn flesh

floods wild fields
with thick rivers
of human blood,
all for the crash,

the passing out,
the dark coming to
between stark, white sheets
of survival.

Everyone be well. I am going to be on the road for awhile. I will return as soon as I can.