Woman Carrying Papason Chair

On Tuesday night, I had my composition class write from prompts of a poem of Tony Hoagland's called "Man Carrying Sofa." I wrote along with them. This type exercise, which I learned from some wonderful writing teachers, always offers the most amazing writing by students.

I thought I would type Hoagland's poem here and then type my response. Of course, Hoagland is the professional poet. What I have written is not a polished poem as Hoagland's is, but a form to loosen the unrelenting phlegm the writing critic produces inside us which keeps us from our words. This exercise then allows a space for more imaginative and creative words to be written.

Man Carrying Sofa

by Tony Hoagland

Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a health-care plan and an attorney girlfriend.

Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'm still dating my checks November.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the year.
I'm afraid of something falling off behind me.
I'm afraid my own past will start forgetting me.

Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty is so strong it hurts--
it hurts because it isn't personal.

But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, --fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.

When David was in town last weeK,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her--

but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
--which made me feel better about myself--
because, after all, I don't want to go through time untouched.

What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrapper,
of X-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.
And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damanged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop, and rest on top of it.

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Now my turn:

Woman Carrying Papason Chair

by Karen Shelnutt

Whatever happened to Ernest Angely, the Elvis-hair lookalike
TV evangelist who I watched heal thousands as I lounged
on my papason chair at the Chateau de Ville Apartments
when I was in college in Birmingham, Alabama?
I haven't heard a thing about him for 25 years.
Maybe his hair fell out, or he married a prostitute, or he got a
huge illness called reality and stopped doing crazy religious TV.

Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'd give anything for it to still be my
junior year of college and to be eating rice slopped with butter
and fried chicken breasts from Piggly Wiggly and watching Ernest Angely
and then Family Feud hosted by Richard Dawson.

I don't want to step through the doorway of the new year.
I'm afraid I've never gotten over being a junior, drinking spiked
punch at law school fraternity parties, and finding out way too
late for me what sexuality feels like. I'm afraid I can never
go back to exploring life and my vagina quite like I did it then.

Now the sunsets are like mushroom clouds, and yes, the
bright light and radiation are strong and it hurts because,
well, I told you, I can't find Ernest Angely on TV anymore
and now that bearded guy, Al, from Home Improvement hosts
Family Feud.

But we look anyway, we sit upon our last 25 years
and stare,--fierce,
at the sunsets of destruction in between like we just heard
there's an atomic bomb drill and we're in fifth grade
and we crawl under cafeteria tables and giggle to disguise our
fear of being blown away.

Years ago when David was still my friend,
I made myself to seem like some intellectual, but needy,
goddess, because I was still wanting the papason chair and
my junior year of college.

but then he left and I discovered the raw smell of aftermath,
of rotting eggs in my heart, and a mannequin life--which
made me feel better about myself--because after all, I don't
want to go through time untouched.

What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of sleep and sleep,
of sleep and more sleep. And this particular complex
pain inside your chest, this damaged longing for
the papason chair and the junior year of college, is
like a heavy piece of furniture, you carry it,
it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop and rest on top of it.
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If anyone is interested in the prompts for this exercise, let me know and I'll send them along.

To our words,

Karen

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