Poetry is Queer, Kirby
Palimpsest
Press, 2021
Start with “First Lines” and imagine matching line to author, puzzle over them in your own head, knowing that they speak to you from somewhere—from something you’ve surely read before, but can’t quite recall. These voices are woven throughout Poetry is Queer. Cavafy is omnipresent—a poetic north star—but then, like little pebbles dropped in a pond, the poet mentions Ashbery, Jordan, Lorde, Brand, Doty, Bishop, Carson, Nguyen, Rich, Sappho, Vaughan, and Williams.
The re-printed interview with R.M. Vaughan is particularly poignant, given that he’s gone from us now. That conversation is a touchstone within the book, a reminder of how poets and creatives sometimes struggle to be present in a world that can be excessively harsh some days. All these poetic voices make ripples that move outwards towards shore, so that this is not just a memoir, but an homage to poetry and its family tree. Kirby is someone who has read and loved poetry—and lived life—widely and vibrantly.
The rich texture of the book, too, is reflected in its stylings. From prose renderings of memories recalled from childhood—with evocative and nostalgic references to a young boy playing Candyland—to the wonderful abecedarian poem “Queersay,” to the checked off list of “Bullet Bio,” to the crisp and witty notation that reads “There is but a single success story in my life./I never managed to kill my fairy,” you’ll find yourself turning pages wondering what will come next. That element of surprise, of curiosity, is something that’s compelling and a lot of it has to do with the strength of the poet’s voice. One can only hope that this will become an audio book, as well as a print one.
The sections that deal with how poetry is embodied, for poets, is vibrant and of note. Kirby writes: “Darlin’s, you already cut a fine figure. It’s called your body. I truly don’t care what kind of body, what kinda shape. I care about one thing and one thing only: that you’re here. From the head down (or neck up), you may think you don’t matter, that ‘it’ shouldn’t matter, that you don’t want to be here. From the ground up, you entirely matter.” Later in the book, she steps out with an empowered and confident voice, asking “What fucking country do I belong to? My body is a country. Mine. Like Whitman, my body is a poem that contains multitudes, and poetry has blown me wide open.” That passion, that intensity, is present throughout the book, a resonant note that repeats itself in a jazz club tune.
The work ebbs and flows, pulling you along in a current. Find yourself smiling and laughing out loud one minute, but then turn a page and read about the horror of how gay men were treated during the AIDS epidemic and know that Poetry is Queer honestly and genuinely documents the poet’s trials and tribulations. Survival is at its core, but there is a flourishing here, as well. Kirby writes: “Possibly the most joyous of things entering my unanticipated sixties is I can be Kirby full-on.” Too, she writes, “I look forward to a genderfluidity not based upon the falsities of what came before it.” As she says, confidently, “You can choose to dance alongside me, relish your fluid body, or not. But this dance is mine.” Here is someone who has truly come into herself, and someone who will not sink, but who will float in that challenging current, learning and growing as she goes.
The remembrances of what it was like to be gay in the early days of the AIDS epidemic are raw ones to read. In these pieces, the poet writes of friends who have died, people who were lovers and chosen family, and of the hatred and discrimination that flourished. She writes: “There’s only now a re-emergence (of sorts) of AIDS writing. I imagine, like myself, it has required some distancing, perhaps now remains, remaining stories can be told.” Poet as witness, yes, but also poet as documentarian and truth teller.
Poetry is Queer is compelling and hard to put down. If you’re a poet in Canada, you already know what Kirby’s done for poetry through Knife Fork Book—with the bookstore and the press—but this hybrid memoir has her opening her life in a vulnerable and brave way, speaking her truth and asking you to consider (and reconsider) your own.
