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    AC Benus
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The content presented here is for informational or educational purposes only. These are just the authors' personal opinions and knowledge.
Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Pride Month, and other Haibun - 11. 1940, 1970 and Today

Happy Pride

.

1940, 1970 and Today

Haibun

 

A poem I wrote many years ago belongs here, in Pride Month and Other Haibun. Today marks the 50th anniversary of the start of the three days of rioting before the Stonewall Inn. It was June of the following year that the first Pride March happened, cementing the notion of being out and visible. Photographs show the same boys and girls – for they were merely brave, wonderful kids in their late teens and early twenties – who fought in the streets with their bones and blood to secure our liberties in the summer of ’69 led the protest parade in 1970.

Each time we take to the streets to reinforce our love, we should think of them. We should also recall the power behind the symbol of the pink triangle, for those who wore it also paid with their blood and bones.

  

 

Poem:

 

What if I were one of them,

one of the ones bound in a line –

on one side held by oppression,

on the stronger side still, by a fact –

bound because they couldn’t hide

what others easily scurry into themselves.

With shaven heads wrapped

in soil and sweat-combed rags,

the line without a sound conjoins

into a row of wasted solitude,

looking all calm, but beneath

a bitter quake of the heart.

One palm sweats where

its own nails bite,

longing for sweet revolt,

or just a little courage to touch

the mate it used to hold

so often and so well.

More spitefully, the living barbs

cut his flesh, bringing blood

to the face of constraint;

sweat and purity mingle

in the cupping want of his hand.

Fear, alive within reach, his eyes

feel sunken deeper in his brain,

but focus worked by weariness

brings an image to attention.

That head before his groping eyes

he sees as summers ago have seen –

where the back of ears were

once awash in sun-like hair –

he would play like a child

on a familiar beach,

stroke a fingertip from nape

around to the side of receiving lobe,

then like a dalliance, retread the way

to end in the sandy spot from which he began.

Letting go, his eyes befell the faded stripes

that downwards clothed the back before him,

and beneath, the shabby remains

of a body he used to feel his own.

Down to himself, his own badge –

the one they gave him as a shame –

he sees the pink triangle gone a dirty

emaciated hue of the time stolen from him.

But movement from in front

caught his ever-slowing glance,

and a blink required a second

to clear his vision,

but movement he saw

from the hand of he in front of him –

from the one he so longed to touch.

Perhaps not an invitation,

perhaps merely a glint

of movement hoping

across a blind desert

for the embrace of a loving eye.

Three sides, the man mused.

Half empty-hearted,

one side denies;

and if unfeeling can

deny a life away,

a second side is shame

to only be alive when

more than one, for

a group in uncurable

illness is a group in

pathetic penitence strong.

But the third and last

is redemption, the one

so few seem to find;

the acquittal of nature,

the strength to free her

of any wrong,

and that love of self

is the only love

to bring about

blessed absolution.

The man’s grip relaxed,

and the nails undug

their trench from his palm.

With one finger slowly raising,

his eyes re-found that

distant glimmer, and made for it

across the dead air of

time robbed from them.

Slowly, for the effort took much…

slowly, no one must see,

no one must, not for shame,

not for grief, but for no other

reason than a secret love

ever wants its innocence.

Again he woke his eyes to focus,

only to feel the palm of his belovèd

take the finger in affection.

A moment only, but neither needed more.

quickly, he drew his hand away

and then saw a guard

had seen their touch.

To the man, the soldier boy

was familiar – the same sweet look

he knew so well – the look his lover

used to wear so mildly

and so openly in the Berlin of old.

A lump hitched in his throat;

not only had this boy seen,

but he was one of them;

one of them hidden and helpless.

The man had no illusions;

such types were the most deadly

to his type – the caught,

the unapologetic, the “uncured,”

and the natural….

He feared the worst. He felt

sorry it meant the same pain

for his belovèd as himself,

wishing he could absorb it

for the man he loved.

A flinch of pity appeared

across the young face;

the guard moved silently away.

Eventually, the order came

and the line of men

trudged forward at a shuffling pace,

their last movement, for

outside the camp gates,

a ditch awaited them.

So the order was brought about

against those – the accusèd Queers –

by the un-accusèd ones

in a place called Belsen.

 

 

But what if I were one of them,

the trickle in the streets who,

by the end of morning,

thousands found themselves.

One of the ones who joined

autonomous limbs and built

an unhanded chain to sweep

arbitrary subjugation aside.

One who reveled in the

sheer weight of all my companions,

we being one, we taking

power so long denied.

Alive in the joy of freedom,

itching for the chance to fight –

whole, happy, strong –

with the strength

of newborns.

What if I were one of them,

the ones who marched on

a bright summer day –

one year to the day –

after Stonewall.

What if I were amongst

the first takers of the

Rights of Queers!

 

 

Postlude:

Sonnet

 

But those generations are gone for me,

Though less than one divides the former from

The one that got all of our liberty;

Thirty-year rebellion from martyrdom.

And yet today among the crowd I saw

Beauty has eyes and hands, and kept below

Levi’s brand, are treasures near the draw,

Handy enough to keep me in sorrow.

Moving like one beyond their concerning,

One boy saw and shyly knew the compliment –

As shadows blew me his glance returning,

Our commonest love with the crowd’s was blent.

Though such days are past, those they loved I see;

I’ll fight that these years belong to him and me!

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

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photo from the first Pride March, June 1970

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_

Copyright © 2017 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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The content presented here is for informational or educational purposes only. These are just the authors' personal opinions and knowledge.
Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are based on the authors' lives and experiences and may be changed to protect personal information. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Chapter Comments

  On 6/27/2019 at 8:28 PM, Lyssa said:

Here I am back, after sorting my thoughts a bit:

Your poem followed me through the whole day. It lingered in my mind. I once have been in Bergen-Belsen, have visited the graves. I have not been to New York yet, I feel the bow you created with your words. Your poem is intense on many levels, one level is about the historical events in the atrocity of the Nazi Regime and in their strength of the Stonewall protests. Also, is there a level about the very personal fate, as you created the story of the young men, which touches even more deeply with the reader. An other level develops through bringing your own thoughts your own presence into the poem, making it even more impressive and intense. The sonnet in the end is like a catharsis, bringing pride, hope, and a strong conclusion. I have no better words in English to exactly tell, what it makes me feel.

And I have lots of thoughts, extremely personal thoughts and memories, which your poem raised and I maybe can write down to share with you one day.

Back to my day today. As you know, I am in the middle of nowhere at the moment. And that I got surprised with a pride celebration in a tiny town here in the middle of the middle of nowhere. Today we went there again. And when I was sitting in the sunshine beneath the rainbow flag at the beautiful lake enjoying the atmosphere, all surrounded by historic buildings some even from the 13th century this quote from Tucholsky came in my mind: Ja, das ist unsere Zeit. Nun sind wir dran. (=Yes, this time belongs to us, it is our turn.)

I think, we should make the best of our time.

Muha :hug:

Expand  

Yes, for me it is all about the personal. To be there, to feel it, something 'real' in us must be engaged by the artwork. With same-sex love, it is love itself that defines us and what has often been our struggle. The play Bent also imagines having to go through these horrors with the one you love.

The poem in this Haibun was inspired by a slender monogaph I bought years ago. It is Pink Triangles and Gay Images by Dr. J. Michael Clark (Arlington 1987). This is the source citing actual testimony from the genocide participants that approximately 400,000 to 500,000 Gay men and women will killed, with no records, with no comment, and with actual incentive to kill Gays for both guards and other detainees via rewards - a day of R&R for the death of each queer going to SS guards.

But, as you rightly point out, my poem ends in hope. As each year has gone by from the time I wrote this poem, these advancements seem less and less retractable, so I have more hope than ever :)

Thank you, Lyssa, for your generous and beautiful comments.      

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  On 6/27/2019 at 10:53 PM, MacGreg said:

The photos certainly add power to this poetry, AC, but your words are the most powerful of all. You capture the stark realities of our fallen brethren, our protests, our celebrations, our determination to continue forth despite obstacles, backlashes, hatred. Yes, it's important to look with hope towards the future, but it's equally important that we remember the past. Thank you for this, AC.

Expand  

Thank you, Mac. I'm honored you read this. For the images, the first one is the right one, no doubt. With the Gay Pride March in 1970, I had more difficulty settling on one. First of all, only by searching for them, did I learn that Marches happened in several cities that day! In New York, in Los Angles, in San Francisco and in Boston. There is always more to learn :)

I was thinking of using the picture showing the March starting in New York, with the guys and gals lined up behind the banners. But then also of the picture showing a sea of people -- a few thousand at least -- gathered later that day in Central Park to hear the rallying speeches. But I saw the one I used and knew it must be it. The Marches, and ultimately our parades too, are all about one to one contact, and through it changing hearts and minds. (That reminds me, another 1970 image that nearly makes cry to see it are the half dozen parents who came out to match with signs like "I love my Gay son, so should you".)

The third images pays tribute to the Today of the poem, and what was going on in the Community at the time it was written.

Thank you again, Mac, for your support and comments. They are much appreciated!      

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  On 6/28/2019 at 12:30 AM, Parker Owens said:

These poems are so powerful, they took my breath away. There is so much in these for me to bind myself to, to identify with. I’m most grateful for these. 

Expand  

Thank you for reading, Parker. I know the poem in this Haibun is meant to draw one in and force an experience. I am grateful to you for letting me work its intent on you. Hugs

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  On 6/28/2019 at 1:47 AM, Defiance19 said:

I read these this morning, AC, and I struggled with what to say. They are potent.

I had the fortunate circumstance to listen to the stories of some people who were there at Stonewall when it happened. The recall is raw and visceral, as if it happened yesterday. It left me, much like reading your poems, shaken to the core. I almost don’t feel like I have the right to feel that way. 

I loved the sonnet. I have much hope for the future. 

Thank you, AC .

 

Expand  

Thank you, Def! It must have been an awesome experience to hear about it from those who lived it. I'm honored you read my poem and it gave you a similar feeling to listening to Stonewall veterans talk about their actual experiences.

And I think there is much to be hopeful about too :yes: Thanks once again!    

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  On 6/28/2019 at 1:11 PM, Mikiesboy said:

No one should have to wear the pink triangle, the yellow star or a scarlet letter.  No one should be branded as unnatural, or less than human or less important than another.  Your words make me sad and angry.  We do have to remember those who came before, who died being who they are, not apologizing, not pretending and proud to be.  As well, we must remember those who were forced to hide if they wanted to live.

i think Michael is right ... you are such a talented poet and your work is important. It speaks for many who cannot.

thank you for this powerful piece ... it is amazing. xoxoo

Expand  

We do have to remember.  The only piece of jewelry I routinely wear, other than my watch, is a ring with a silver band and a single trillion cut pink-sapphire.

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  On 6/28/2019 at 3:28 AM, MichaelS36 said:

I said it last night and I meant it. You are an important poet. I hope … wish … that your work would find its way to the Society of Poets. I believe tim said you had to publish in order to be accepted.  You should. Your words are meaningful and powerful and they should left for generations to come. 

I'd be proud to have a copy of your book on my shelves. It would be something I'd go to often.  If nothing else you should publish your Pride works. 

Thanks for this powerful piece. In your words are our pasts, our bones and flesh, our strength and beauty, love, hate and pride in being. 

Publish. xo

Expand  

Thank you for your kind support and encouragement, Mike. I can show you stacks of rejection letters, so the push to try again is a tough one. As a work like this shows, I don't think my writing needs to change to suit arbitrary tastes of various editors; I must keep faith that what I do is not only for this time period. 

Anyway, your urging has me thinking of trying again, but It's honestly a tough concept to swallow and be determined about (again). However, the warmth of your message is received loud and clear, so thank you once more ❤️ 

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  On 6/28/2019 at 3:56 AM, Wayne Gray said:

Thank you for sharing your words, your work, your thoughts and talent with us, AC.

It's not often that I'm at a loss for words, but I don't believe I can add anything else beyond what has been said.

Expand  

Thank you, Wayne, for reading this Haibun and letting me know it touched you. That's the main thing after all, and I'm very appreciative :yes: 

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  On 6/28/2019 at 1:11 PM, Mikiesboy said:

No one should have to wear the pink triangle, the yellow star or a scarlet letter.  No one should be branded as unnatural, or less than human or less important than another.  Your words make me sad and angry.  We do have to remember those who came before, who died being who they are, not apologizing, not pretending and proud to be.  As well, we must remember those who were forced to hide if they wanted to live.

i think Michael is right ... you are such a talented poet and your work is important. It speaks for many who cannot.

thank you for this powerful piece ... it is amazing. xoxoo

Expand  

Thank you, Tim! You say something here that I have not traditionally realized, that is until very recently with the feedback I received for my Pulse tribute poems. I guess I can and do speak for others who think/feel similar thoughts but cannot express them. I only ever write about one subject -- connection -- so learning this fact quite late in life has shed new light on what I do and where I want to go as an artist in the near future. 

Your encouragement here, and your general praise of my work, touches me very deeply; I hope you know that. Mega Muahs ❤️ 

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  On 6/29/2019 at 12:57 AM, mollyhousemouse said:

you've done it again AC and rendered me speechless
the words are powerful, the pictures you conjure with them are just as powerful as the ones you have included in this offering
i'm grateful to those who went before that i get to read these wonderful things you write
please don't ever stop, what you do is important




 

Expand  

Thank you, Molly. It's never my goal to render a reader speechless, but hearing such feedback tells me what I've done has a power all its own. Thank you for that. 

It's always wonderful when you read, like, and leave comments on things I post. I know some of them are very strong in flavor, and not to everyone's taste, but I commit to doing what I think is valuable in the long run. You seem to get that, and I am 100% humbled and thankful to you. You get kisses too - Muah ❤️ 

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  On 6/30/2019 at 3:15 PM, AC Benus said:

Thank you for your kind support and encouragement, Mike. I can show you stacks of rejection letters, so the push to try again is a tough one. As a work like this shows, I don't think my writing needs to change to suit arbitrary tastes of various editors; I must keep faith that what I do is not only for this time period. 

Anyway, your urging has me thinking of trying again, but It's honestly a tough concept to swallow and be determined about (again). However, the warmth of your message is received loud and clear, so thank you once more ❤️ 

Expand  

More fools they.  Even if you self publish.. it will be out there... but I do understand, AC. I hope I didn't upset you, my friend. xo 

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