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Christopher Soden Poem
When you put on your coat
and light a smoke
on the front stoop, December
gusts tear into you. But
that drag rides all the way
down as you shut your lids.
A hat like your dad
wore when he thrummed
his bass at the clubs, skitters
down the street, no one
to chase and bring it back.
For the first time you notice
a distant train bellowing
like a bull past consolation.
A man in his 20’s wanders
under a streetlamp, snuffling
now unmistakable. You offer
your handkerchief
but the wind is fierce
and deafening. The night enfolds
him like an endless black
curtain. You barely make
out the whimper you follow
for blocks, until you find
a spaniel too afflicted
to stand. Why is tonight
different? Saturday or Wednesday
you’d have returned home.
But now, at 10:37, something
rough bruises your chest.
You remove your jacket
and wrap him delicately, singing
in a whisper. You bend
to kiss his sloppy snout.
Now something turns
your bones to light.
Copyright © Christopher Soden | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Soden Poem
She wasn’t crazy about the insipid
platinum blondes she was asked
to play, sop to buffoons,
goddess too merciful to see
she could turn them to ashes,
or orangutans with a murmured spell.
Her last film was The Misfits:
written by her husband: a woman
in pigtails and jeans, frank
and naive, blind to the effect
she has on cowboys as lost
as she. She finds them trapping
defiant mustangs, and fights
them off, before they can break
another soul. In The Seven Year Itch
she straddles a subway grate, steam
lifting her skirt like the hot breath
of a Minotaur or drooling neighbor.
In Some Like it Hot she plays ukulele
in a women’s band, crossing paths
with two musicians, disguised
as ladies. She’s done with guys
who squander her money
on the ponies, and other girls.
Sleeping that first night
on the train, the bass player climbs
into the upper bunk, drunk
on enchantment. He wishes her
goodnight. Goodnight, Honey,
she replies, in that whispery
way, softer than moonlight.
For that moment, this
orphan of the world
splurges without caution,
warmth impossible
to find. In that astonishing
instant, gone before we know,
actual care brushes
our cheek. But lingers
as long as we let it.
Copyright © Christopher Soden | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Soden Poem
I leave the Christmas matinee
after five. Clouds sparse and dark
blue, fierce wind kicking up
from the North. Last night I rented
Midnight Cowboy, hoping it wasn’t
a mistake. The first time
I saw it I was spending the night
with my closest friend, who lived
in the dorm. Some guys
trapped me in the men’s toilets,
blocking the door, forcing the air
from my lungs. But how could I
not watch again, with goofy Joe
Buck, cowboy hustler who cares
too much to earn genuine coin
for sex, and Ratso hobbling
(like Amahl or Tiny Tim)
and that inconsolable harmonica
and Nilsson dragging me
to endless aching? How badly
I need Christmas this time
around. Something to keep me
from slugging myself. Ratso
follows me like a cozy shadow,
all crumby and disgusting. If only I
could kiss him on the mouth again
and again, crash the showers
in the men’s dorm and lather him
tenderly. If only I could go back.
If only my buddy had said
something. Just something.
Copyright © Christopher Soden | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Soden Poem
i am wielder of chaos
bearer of cozy poison
hidden son of jupiter
gestated from his thigh
supple strapping boy
follow the crooked
steps of spontaneous
capering i will soothe
your terrified gaze
summon frantic defiant
nymphs to slake
your thumping skull
with tender anarchy
my fierce priestesses
in robes of moonlight
diaphanous cobweb
will sing lilting implacable
spells to wreck
planets in their courses
wine and feral milk spouting
from tap of hyssop branch
i will swaddle you
in mother night caress
you with snake tongue
drizzle silky
secret language
of the rapacious
in your ear nudge
succulent fissure
yearning for arc
of scalding bliss
lightning bone
sap of brief
delectable death
Copyright © Christopher Soden | Year Posted 2026
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Christopher Soden Poem
They decided early that color
was wrong for McMurtry’s novel.
Peter left his wife after he discovered
Cybil on the cover of Seventeen.
He fired her assistant, when she upset
her by trying to run lines. He fought
with camera men, grips, the rest
of the crew. Cloris and Ellen got sloshed
every night, holding each other
through spasms of grief, unable to bury
their dying marriages. Tim, still hot
from his turn in Trumbo’s Johnny
Got His Gun, ached for the ingenue
goddess Peter kept all to himself.
Driving her in the 48 Ford Sunchariot,
black patch bandaging his wounded
eye, the pain comes off Tim in waves.
Raw performers, drenched
in disappointment and endless
hurt. The whimper of bed
springs when Sonny makes love
to Ruth Popper. Sam the Lion losing
his hold beside calm black water. Lois
in her cooler than cool killer black
sunglasses and scarf, flipping off
the town alpha. The longing in
Genevieve's broken smile. An elegy
to hope: Hank Williams wailing
(he sounds too blue to fly) ice wind
and black dust swarming
like a spell. Crumbs thrown
to the hungry ghost of rejection.
You cannot have me.
You. Cannot. Have. Me.
Copyright © Christopher Soden | Year Posted 2026
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