October 28, 2018Just Fighting
in memory of Tony Hoagland
When he grew weak
and held our final seminars at his home,
we, his dozen secondhand children,
gathered around him in secondhand chairs.
We barely noticed he shivered when he spoke.
How robust he looked in his den of batik tapestries,
pontificating about what John Ashbery could not do
until the surrealist among us was offended
and it got so heated we couldn’t go on.
“I’m just fighting,” Tony said.
Well, some of us like to fight, some of us need to,
and some of us fought back
like he really was our father
whom we hated and adored.
Oh, Tony. You welcomed it
and you gave. So skinny underneath your thermal shirt
and your cheeks brightened not by blood,
but by an orange knit hat and polyester suit vest,
you sparred not with us but for us. Did we know before you
that the unsaid should not be said, but shouted?
Did we believe another word could keep oblivion at bay?
from Poets Respond