The Wrestler (probably in its final form)

[CalebPerry]

final form (for the moment)

Sorry that I didn't accept all the suggestions I got. This version is almost the same as version 2.

The Wrestler

You were on the wresting team, and I
was in the debate club; and though the wrestlers
weren’t the heroes of the school
(that honor went to the footballers), yours
was still a sport, and that intimidated me.

But I knew who you were, if vaguely,
a muscular boy who wore tight outfits for
his matches, outfits that revealed his form.
You were prettier than I, which was why
I was stunned when you spoke to me one day,
confident and natural, as if we had
always been friends.

Debating wasn’t your thing, you couldn’t see
why anyone would do it, but you liked
to grapple, you liked a fight, to struggle for
the freedom that others took for granted. And so,
two days later I found myself in your home,
in your basement set up like a gym, with mats,
your parents off to work, getting ready for
my first lesson in debating with limbs.

You instructed me as you tossed me about —
detailing the moves, the positions, the tactics —
while I tried not to shriek with every thump and slam.
You grabbed me in places I hadn’t been touched
by any other hand. Having figured out
who I was the year before, I knew that this
was what I wanted, but what you wanted,
I wasn’t sure.

After one loud yelp, you stopped being Coach
and became Doctor. You said, “I need to look”,
and pulled the thin cloth of my singlet down,
exposing my arousal which you pretended
not to see. You fondled the part I said
hurt the most. Then, brazenly, I asked you
to kiss me, but not on the lips. You laughed,
but you did, then put your mouth around me.

I was poised to be swept away when suddenly
you were done. You jumped up, looked in a mirror,
announced that you had other things to do,
that I wasn’t a good wrestler after all,
that you weren’t in the mood, that I should go.
So ended my first romantic interlude.

A large part of me still lives in that place,
wonders how I managed to drive off love
that day, as I have all of the rest of my years.

~end~


version 2

I haven't made a lot of changes to this version. This poem is more personal than most, and the original version was close to what I wanted. Sorry.

The Wrestler

You were on the wresting team, and I
was in the debate club; and though the wrestlers
weren’t exactly the heroes of the school
(that honor went to the footballers), yours
was still a sport, and that intimidated me.

But I knew who you were, if vaguely,
a muscular boy who wore tight outfits for
his matches, outfits that revealed his form.
You were prettier than I, handsomer,
which was why I was stunned when you spoke to me
one day, confident and natural, as if
I were just another friend.

Debating wasn’t your thing, you couldn’t see
why anyone would do it, but you liked
to grapple, you liked a fight, to struggle for
the freedom others took for granted. And so,
two days later I found myself in your home,
in your basement set up like a gym, with mats,
and your parents off to work, getting ready
for my first lesson in debating with torsos and limbs.

You taught me while you tossed me about —
explaining the moves, positions, tactics —
while I tried not to shriek with every thump and slam.
You grabbed me in places I hadn’t been touched
by anyone else. Having figured out who
I was the year before, I knew that this
was what I wanted. But what you wanted,
I wasn’t sure.

After one loud yelp, you stopped being Coach
and became Doctor. You said, “I need to look”,
then pulled the thin cloth of my singlet down,
exposing my arousal which you pretended
not to see. You fondled the part of me
that hurt the most. Then, brazenly, I asked
you to kiss me, but not on the lips. You laughed,
but you did, then put your mouth around me.

I was poised to be swept away, but suddenly
you were done. You jumped up, straightened your hair,
then announced you had other things to do,
that I wasn’t a good wrestler after all,
that you weren’t in the mood, that I should go.
So ended my first romantic interlude.

A large part of me still lives in that place,
wonders how I managed to drive off love
then, as I have all of the rest of my days. [original ending]

From your makeshift basement bedroom, I limped home. [Possible alternative ending to replace strophe above.]


original version

The Wrestler

You were on the wresting team, and I
was in the debate club; and though the wrestlers
weren’t exactly the heroes of the school —
that honor went to the footballers — yours
was still a sport, which intimidated me.

But I knew who you were, if vaguely,
a muscular boy who wore tight outfits for
his matches, outfits that revealed his form.
You were prettier than I, handsomer,
which was why I was surprised when you spoke
to me, confident and natural, one day as if
we were already friends, as if you knew
who I was. Had you been watching me?

Debating wasn’t your thing; you couldn’t see
why anyone would do it, but you liked
to grapple, you liked a fight, to struggle for
the freedom others took for granted. And so,
two days later I found myself in your home,
in your basement set up like a gym, with mats,
and your parents off to work, readying
myself for my first lesson.

You patiently taught me while you tossed me about —
explaining the moves, positions, the tactics —
while I, self-consciously, tried not to squeal
like a frightened girl. You grabbed me in places
that, formerly, hadn’t been touched by any
but my own hands, and you did so hungrily.
Having figured out who I was the year before,
I understood that this was what I wanted.
But what you understood, I wasn’t sure.

Suddenly, after one loud yelp, you stopped
being Coach and became Doctor, and told me,
“I need to look”, and pulled the thin cloth of my
singlet down, exposing my arousal which
you pretended not to see. But in my mind,
all pretenses had dissolved. You fondled that
portion that hurt the most. Then, brazenly,
I asked you to kiss me, though not on my lips.
You laughed, but then you did, then put your mouth
around it, then an odd look crossed your face.

I was ready to be swept away, but you
were in a different space. You jumped up, looked
at yourself in a mirror, then said you had
other things to do, that I wasn’t much
of a wrestler, that I should keep debating,
that you would see me later, that I should go.
So ended my first romantic interlude.

A large part of me still lives in that place,
and wonders how I managed to drive off love,
as I have managed all the rest of my days.

~end~

This poem has an interesting back-story. I recently bought W.H. Auden's Collected Works and was totally gob-smacked by the size of the volume. Auden started writing when he was young and apparently never stopped. I, on the other hand, have produced one slim volume. I started to realize that I make it hard for me to write. I have these formalist standards that are hard to implement, and I am dissatisfied with any poem that doesn't have a few obvious formalist "hooks". However, narrative poetry is one of my strengths, and it occurred to me that I might be able to write more easily if I adopted blank verse as my normal form, and just simply told stories. And this poem is the result.

I suspect that a lot of you will suggest leaving off the last two lines. I probably will, but what I wrote in those lines has been the story of my life, so they mean a lot to me.

Thanks for looking this over.

[Macavity]

Hi Caleb,
The debating/wrestling, the vocal/physical, was an interesting thread, but essentially the piece read like a diary entry.

best

Phil

[CalebPerry]

Many of my diary entries would make good poems, so I'm not too concerned. However, I'd like to hear from others.

[camus]

Very homoerotic, that's wrestling for you!

I agree with Mac though, it soon descends into diary entry, which itself could have been interesting, but without any poetics, just became boring...

Cheers
Kris

[CalebPerry]

Thank you, Kris.

I thought I maintained a level of personal focus throughout that made it more than just a journal entry, but I guess I was wrong. Can you identify the point at which it begins to become boring? Or is it boring from the start? Thanks.

[bjondon]

Hi Caleb,
actually the last three lines felt the strongest to me. Maybe even start at that point and track backwards, trying to unfold it.
'Diary entries' can be interesting, it depends on the mood. I'd keep trying with this one. Hard to say exactly why it doesn't come off the page - it feels sort of woozy, a bit like a dream diary, the two characters slipping into stereotypes (Nerd/Jock).

Perhaps make more of an issue of the freedoms at play ('the debate').
The Wrestler looking at himself in the mirror is an interesting moment.
Generic phrases like 'squeal like a frightened girl' need more explaining - the role of touch/physicality in the N's life.

I think this counts and matters as 'a first kiss' but not quite 'romantic interlude' - the other guy sounds quite cold and manipulative, but the borderline is worth exploring.

Best, Jules

[CalebPerry]

Thank you, Jules. You've made some interesting comments. I guess I need to put some more excitement or urgency into the poem; that's what others seem to want. I've had a lot of my narrative poems described as diary entries, and I guess I need some clarity as to what distinguishes those two things.

[camus]

Can you identify the point at which it begins to become boring? Or is it boring from the start?

I think it could benefit from a different structure. It's very prosy, so why not put it into a prose/poem structure? Injecting perhaps some poetic language, which for a "poem" it seemed to lack.

That way you can balance the narrative and the poetic, all legit like!

If you're interested here is an example of a pretty cool prose/poem - https://www.gravitonlit.com/benniespodziany

Cheers
Kris

[CalebPerry]

Kris, I thought that I had already done some of the things you suggested. It is already very prosaic, and putting it into paragraph form will remove what few poetic elements the poem has. I did think that I already had some poetic language. I guess what I'm saying is, if the language is already prosaic, making it a prose poem is opposite of what I should do.

I have posted a second version which is similar to the first. I guess that this is one poem that I am writing to please myself instead of an audience. I do think that gay people will be able to relate to it a little better than straights.

However, thanks for your feedback.

[CalebPerry]

Although I didn't end up making huge changes to the poem, I am toying now with two different endings. If you are interested, perhaps you will take a look.

[Macavity]

Pathos or bathos. I prefer the original ending.

Phil

[CalebPerry]

Thanks, Phil.

I'm focussed on filling out one of my yearly government applications for benefits. After it's done, I'll start participating more.

[bjondon]

Hi Caleb,
Most of your tweaks have improved this - it feels more considered and lyrical - but I am still left wanting more, especially about the other guy, who just feels like a blank.

S3 - 'to struggle for the freedom others took for granted' - are these your words or a paraphrase of what he was saying? It seems important.

'my first lesson in debating with torsos and limbs' - sounds a bit contrived, but could work as:
'my first lesson in debate with your torso and limbs'.

You've lost the look in the mirror moment, the one flash of insight. Perhaps he was just a manipulative jerk, (had he done this before?). What was his struggle? How did his life continue?

Not keen on the limp home. You could compress the 'all the rest of my days' line into the preceding one:
'wonders how I have always managed to drive off love.'
- I think understatement works better here.

Because I know you I can locate this in the 60's, but would a new reader realise this? The 'freedom' speech perhaps picks up that tone, but more of a clue would help.

Best, Jules

[CalebPerry]

Jules, you have made some very useful comments, and I appreciate them. I am going to try each one out in the poem and see how it reads.

In the poem, the speaker says that he "figured out who I was" the year before (meaning, realized he was gay), and the wrestler was also figuring out that he was gay. But the wrestler was also a more desirable man than the speaker, and -- I believe -- simply decided the speaker (me) wasn't attractive enough to pursue. (This poem is a composite of several experiences I had of being rejected.) Or perhaps, once he got a look at my "arousal", decided it wasn't big enough to make him happy. He was figuring out that he was gay, but he was also being selective.

A gay reader will pick up on these things more easily than a straight reader will. Sometimes I have to write for my own kind.

The wrestler should be a blank, to a certain extent, because the poem is really about being rejected. I've written the wrestler to be a sex object, though I tried to do it without getting lurid.

I'm glad that the poem sounds more lyrical to you now. I am trying hard to add more lyricism. I recently removed some of the "thens" from the poem.

"To struggle for the freedom that others gook for granted" was a paraphrase of his remarks. I wanted to show that he was at least somewhat thoughtful about his notives.

I don't think that this poem is dated in any way. Athletes who fancy themselves to be macho still struggle with their gay feelings. The fact that gays are generally "out of the closet" these days doesn't change the personal struggle.

In the draft on my computer, I have added back the "mirror" line.

Once again: Good comments. Thank you!

[Leaf]

Hi Caleb,

I'm sorry I'm late to this one. I've read all the versions and all the comments, to catch up. I agree that narrative poetry is one of your strengths and I enjoyed reading the poem. The latest version is the strongest, to my mind.

I suppose I might be unusual here on PAT in that I really like diary-style poetry. There's a coming-of-age quality to this poem that I find very engaging. It's clearly written and the contrasts between you and the wrestler are well drawn. I like the descriptions throughout and the line 'So ended my first romantic interlude' makes me want to ask about the second and subsequent interludes. I even consider writing about my first major crush, on my chemistry teacher

The ending is rather melancholy, which I understand. But it sounds to me like this wrestler wasn't sure what he wanted and was just figuring things out, so that has nothing to do with driving off love

Best wishes,
Fliss

[CalebPerry]

Felicity, thank you so much for your comments. I really appreciate them.

You seem to see everything in this poem that I do. Calling it a "coming-of-age" story is right on the nose.

But it also embodies some of the selfishness of men. I think that men are more focussed on looks than women are, and gay men are more focussed on looks even than straight men are. Perhaps, once the wrestler got a look at my body, I lost some of my appeal. In my long career of having sex as a gay man, I have done similar things. I have rejected men shortly after sex began because I didn't like the way their penises looked. I'm no better than most other men in that regard.

As a piece of meat on the "meat rack", which is what we called the pick-up places where gay men would cruise, I was never the best-looking man there. My looks were always "middling". As I said, that poem is a composite of several experiences I have had. I wrote that wrestler to be in the closet, but not so much that he didn't know what turned him on. Ultimately, the narrator in this story didn't turn him on enough to complete the act. It's also possible that I, the narrator, came across as needy to the wrestler, and that was why he suddenly changed his mind.

Even if the wrestler wasn't sure of what he was looking for, the narrator would still end up feeling rejected after such an experience. It's very human to take things personally, even if they weren't meant that way.

I'm still working on the poem, trying, bit by bit, to make it more lyrical. Thanks again for taking the time to critique it.

I'd love to read anything you decide to write about your chemistry teacher.

[ray miller]

I enjoyed the read, there's enough drama in there to make up for the occasional pedestrian passages. Of course, I don't like the ending, but so many of your endings are the same and I don't think you can help it.
and your parents off to work, getting ready - getting to grips with... if you like puns.
for my first lesson in debating with limbs.

You were prettier than I, handsomer,
which was why I was stunned when you spoke to me - I'd omit handsomer

[Leaf]

You're very welcome, Caleb; I always appreciate your comments on my poems

I'm glad a 'coming-of-age' story sounds just right to you and I'm interested in what you say about the selfishness of men. I've heard that gay men are particularly focused on looks and now I remember that a gay friend I had through my late teens and early 20s was certainly quite preoccupied with appearances. We lost touch when he moved abroad for work.

I like that the poem is a composite. It does sadden me that the experience has caused some pain, but I understand it and I'm glad you're writing about it. Thanks for your encouragement re. my writing a poem about my chemistry teacher. That's something I've wanted to do for a while

Best wishes,
Fliss

[CalebPerry]

Ray, I just saw your comment. What kind of ending would you put in there if the poem were yours?

I'm sorry that all my endings sound alike to you.

[ray miller]

I think you often summarise at the end of your poems or draw a conclusion the readers are able to draw themselves.

[CalebPerry]

Well, the final three lines of this poem go in a new direction (it seems to me), so I don't see them as being a mere summary. Besides which I don't see a summary as a poor ending in most cases. I'm not one of those writers who feels that a poem should have lots of blanks in it which the reader must fill in. I use the same standards for poems that I apply to prose, the difference being that I try to make the language of the poem poetic. On other forums especially, there have been times when other members would chop off the final stanza because it was "implied", leaving the poem without any ending. My belief is that (depending on the poem) the writer should spell everything out, but say it cogently so it appeals to the mind.