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’s 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 I think is 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.