The Oral Tradition

The Oral Tradition


Years ago, in Eugene, Oregon, a woman introduced
me to a small audience with this:

"After fucking my married lover twice, as we
dozed in each other's sweat, he suddenly
jumped out of bed, and said,
"You have to hear this guy's poems."

So he runs to his shelf, pulls down this
little book of poems called
THE BUSINESS OF FANCYDANCING, and starts
reading aloud. Reads the whold damn thing,
and it's wonderful.

My naked lover, great poems, and the smell
of sex lingering. Can you imagine a better day?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the first
time I ever heard of Sherman Alexie."

I laughed, of course. It was a hilarious
ode to the poetic and adulterous,

But it's also when I first realized
(and please forgive my naive surprise)

That poets will give you affection
as they steal the audience's attention.

Of course, I'm no better than the rest.
I turn each reading into a test

Of my humor and masculinity.
It's cheap, but I want strangers to want me

Naked on their shelves if not in their beds.
Who doesn't know that reading is like sex?

Well, after that introduction, I spoke
about my father and my father's ghost,

Like I always do, and though I was bored
with myself, I was still keeping score

And counted the women, whose eyes betrayed
carnal ambition: "Ah, that one would play

with me, and so would that one and that one.
That blonde in the back would be the most fun."

And yes, you might think this poem is callow,
but there are poets--wise on paper, hollow

In person--who are famous for sleeping
with their groupies. Who doesn't know reading

Is like sex? Who doesn't know that lovely
and lonely women seek the company

Of homely poets? Me, I like to go back
to my hotel room and lustily attack

Myself. I'm the Mayor of Masturbation
City (and yes, for your information,

I know this poem is pleasuring itself),
but, please, I do need your patience and help.

I am trying to feel my way to the reason
why this poem exists: Think of a season,

Your favorite one, and allow its weather
to become your weather. This poem gets better

If you let yourself feel summer heat
or autumn melancholy or winter freeze,

Or even the non-ironic hope of spring,
because, and now I'm getting to the thing

I want you to know that the naked guy
who read my poems aloud eventually died

Of lung cancer. I learned this from his wife,
who introduced herself to me one night,

Years later, just after I retold this story.
"That was my husband," she said, so weary,

It seemed, of loving adulterous ghosts.
I'd just turned her into an anecdote,

But she was forgiving and somehow amused,
while I felt stupid, silly, and cruel.

She said, "I always knew he'd return to me,
and he did. He left that woman. A week

Later, he coughed up a handful of blood.
One month after that, my husband was gone."

What could I say? "Shit," I said. "Shit, shit."
I'd lost my talent for words, warmth, and wit.

But with a grace so pristine and wicked,
the woman said, "He always looked good naked,

Especially when he was reading in bed."
Who doesn't know poetry is just like sex?


Sherman Alexie

from his book FACE