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Jack Peachum Poem
The Virginia Hermaphrodite
(Bennet’s Farm, Jamestowne, 1629)
Your Honors, Gentlemen of the Council,
Ask me– how it is that I am brought here?
Stepping out of church, bothering no one,
I was of a serene and peaceful mind–
When of a sudden– without a whisper–
I’m set on by folks in the neighborhood!
Men and women handle me very rough–
Fall to a malign of my character–
Pulling up my skirts and looking at me–
Outting me in front of gaping strangers!
Keep them off me, no hands on my body–
No rude words– I’ve given them no reason!
This because Great Bess says I pleasured her!
Well, so I did– often– and overmuch!
I lie with the maid– I lie with the man--
I please them both– as Great Bess will have said–
Or some men might– close to hand– who won’t speak!
Am I man or woman? I cannot say.
But I’ll be truthful--since my secret’s out–
Aye, I do wear the skirt– or men’s trouser–
Whichever pleases me at the moment!
Oh, I’ve but little piece of hole, good sirs--
An’ I’m not hung like some big strong stallion–
Yea, I must put on woman’s apparel
– time t’ time– t’ get some’at for my cat!
But am I ever deviant in such?
No, never– for God’s made me what I am!
And will you set your judgement above Him?
I am man and woman in one body–
With some exceptions, for which I’m thankful–
I don’t suffer Mother Eve’s affliction,
Nor have I art to bear and suckle young–
I’m soft of skin, I have but scantest hair–
I am warlike in the masculine way
– makest my water whilst I’m standing up--
Yet still– I’ve the nature of a woman–
In that I am so easy moved to tears!
You, hereabouts, know me as Thomas Hall--
I am christened Thomasine, not Thomas--
For many years, a child at mother’s knee,
Girl-like, I went through Newcastle’s mean streets–
Till full-grown– I found me more man than maid–
So, I donned uniform, went as soldier–
And fought bravely– you shall not doubt me there!
I begged no ground nor quarter-- in that field!
But a soldier’s rough life was not for me–
Home I came, to find the wearing of lace–
No thick cartridge belt– no heavy chain-mail–
– the wrap of a dress– much more to my like!
So it was an’ I shipped for Virginia–
A servant girl seeking for a new life--
Employed as maid in the planter’s household!
Now, I shall question you– in due respect–
Your Honors, what‘s the purpose of this court?
To determine my sex by a hearing?
I think not– since not even God’s wisdom
Has said by what mode of dress I shall go!
Were it in this court’s power to gender
– make me entire as a man or woman–
Then it were greater than God or nature!
You hold me guilty– but guilty of what?
Is there an honest man amongst this crowd,
No matter how masculine– how bearded,
Who has not wondered at the distaff side?
How it means and how it feels to be fair,
What’s it to go forth dressed in women’s clothes–
Enjoying the soft caress-- aye, fond kiss–
And, nay, not to carry the thing forward,
But to give in, surrendering love’s part–
Become the one to whom love’s-act is done!
Likewise, I shall say for the weaker sex
– an' there ever be such an animal!–
What female’s not wanted to wear the pants?
What wife’s not felt an envy of her spouse–
As carries Love’s weapon in front of him?
Is there a woman’s not felt her desire–
Strong as any man’s– an’ maybe warmer–
Then come at it sometimes to ride atop–
Astride like as some ol’ Roman harlot!
Now– your judgement, sirs– is unduly harsh!
How did you arrive at such a sentence?
Is it jealousy makes you punish me?
Of course, I cannot say what you might feel–
But each of us wants what the other’s got–
Since I have both, your pique is natural!
You rule that I must dress in men’s trousers,
Go with my head adorned by woman’s scarf–
And wear an apron tied round my middle!
It’s too much, I tell you– alors, too much!
I’ll be nothing now but a laughingstock!
(Nay– I’ll go off and live with the savage!)
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
DANSE MACABRE
Bright Love went hand in hand w/ ancient death
to plant his kisses upon death’s grey cheek--
old Death rolled up his eye and caught his breath,
he felt his bony thigh beneath grown weak--
Death went w/ love into a quiet land
wheregrew all things of green and flowers bright
then singing softly to himself, took love’s hand,
now let it go and danced into the light--
And where they passed, the sky grew cold and black
--a wind came up and all the flowers died--
thus, they journied on, and neither one looked back--
but went their way, and as they went death cried:
“Of all life’s blessings Love alone is breath
and love alone is fit to dance with death!’
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
HARVEST MOON
A restless night--
the moon through the window
shining right in my face!
I woke to find the room bright as day
– all sorts of erotic dreams--!
Women were throwing themselves at me!
But I turned them all down, dear,
for you-- just for you!
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
EDGAR CAYCE
True, true, my hands are soft– not overworked,
nor lined by heavy labor-- nor calloused
-- the soft hands of a gentleman, perhaps!
But my manners are rough and countryfied,
my speech slow and southern– hillbilly twang–
Kentucky born and bred-- just barely schooled,
crude-souled, unrefined, a bit of a rube
– more than once I have heard me so described!
And, of course, I’m not well-read– no classics,
knowing but little of this great wide world--
then these trances come-- I must leave myself!
Go swim through the thick soup of life itself!
Here we have the body– for its own use–
(supposedly, for that’s the theory)
– for transport, pleasure, for dream, sentience–
and Death looms large in the imagination,
as it must in them that guess their own end
-- a variety of common ailments--
– disease and injury, cancer, famine,
not to say blindness-- fear of falling–
and, always, small physical pains and aches–
though not so small as to go unnoticed!
Nor should we forget to mention accident
– who habitates far from cause and effect–
propinquity’s most unlovely stepchild!
But beyond all that– who is this person here?
Who is this spirit dressed in mortal clothes?
Where do we find the psyche, the engine,
the driver makes this body move about
in some realm of coexistence with God?
I've visited in both lung and liver,
swam the blood through all the veins– toe to head–
traveled through intestine and out again,
been one with nerve and bone and cartelidge–
I’ve mapped the heart, viewed ventricles, aorta,
looked out through pupil of another’s eye
– experienced both sets of genitals--
even seen the brain while it was at work--
yet still– I can tell you nothing-- nothing!
My Presbyterian soul so hungers for a sign
– the minutest spark of some divine light–
and I must confess– I have not found it!
Only once, whilst dreaming in the pineal,
I glimpsed a long parade of empty carts
that traveled quickly down all the bright years
to be filled by an unknown unseen hand–
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
ABE LINCOLN WRITES TO JOSHUA SPEED
Dear Joshua:
You know that I love you,
That I have always loved you– only you!
The woman means nothing to me– nothing!
Henceforth, don’t write angry letters to me!
Mary always was and always will be
A splinter between us in our bed:– but–
I can’t be shut of her in this office!
Did my connivance top my ambition,
How quickly I would be a single man!
What is it that fool Herndon says of me?
“His ambition is a little engine–
And knows no rest!” He sees not half of it!
May God legitimize me in office!
A President must be above the law–
Else how is he to make a government?
Me, for the cunning of the country boy,
The big, rude, untutored rural bumpkin
As cozzens the clever city-slicker–
The husband that outsmarts the nagging wife!
Anyway, she’s a cow, gross of habit,
Unpleasant– forever in a foul mood,
Capable of the meanest behavior–
A spendthrift who wastes more than I can earn!
(I sometimes believe she might be insane–
I’ve considered– but that’s not possible!)
We no longer sleep together, of course–
Her headaches– and what a relief to me!
Oh, she has perjured herself more than once
In the matter of government monies–
And persuaded others to do likewise!
I don’t know how we should make an answer
If there be any call to inquiry!
Perhaps– you will pray for me, Joshua–
Pray my rising career don’t be cut short
By the machinations of a woman!
No, of course, there won’t be an inquiry--
I’ve taken proper steps– the matter’s closed!
But you ask what brought me to marry her?
She with her connections and her money–.
When you’re poor as I am, you’re needing both!
(Alas, her fortune long gone, I’m afraid!)
I say, what other reasons could there be?
One don’t ride to this office by merit–
The fare’ll be paid with cash and conscience!
In that respect she serves me very well!
And lest you think, I give her too much praise,
I remind you– she was once a helpmate–
So, in spite of all, I’ve a debt to her–
Not only for office, but family,
A thing I never had nor dared dream of
In my whole entire melancholy life–
But here I have suffered such tragedies!
Alas, that poor Willie should die– my boy,
My precious little son, a sweet angel,
And he shut in the earth, food for the worm!
I glimpse him now and then, in pale moonlight,
Walking across the lawn of the White House–
Mary tells me she’s seen him too– at play,
In the parlor sometimes after sunrise–
Now, God help us both– for we know he’s dead!
We’ve all seen him lying in his coffin!
Our seance did nothing to bring him forth–
How can he be haunting these corridors?
It breaks my heart– I must not dwell on it!
Now, I’ll tell you a thing that baffles me–
Last evening, I looked in a mirror–
And saw my face, half dead and half-alive
– one side, my living face stared back at me,
And on the other side, my naked skull–
Devoid of skin– gleamed bone-white in the glass!
I looked again and the vision was gone!
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
IF LOVERS WE
(To Julia)
`` If lovers we, you and I, who would we be?
W0uld we be William Powell and Myrna Loy,
sophisticates, trading alcoholic quips across the dining room?
Would we be Abelard and Heloise,
lovers doomed, she to a nunnery, and he,
his castrati voice intoning high prayers through the fog
of winter afternoons
Would we be Tom and Valerie Elliott
plunging into a cold madness?
Would we be Bonnie and Clyde,
outlaw lovers, running down country roads
to meet violent death?
Would we be Buster Keaton and the heroine,
he taking a pratfall towards her heart?
Or an average couple, maybe, growing old before the fire,
watching the last dying coals go out?
No, I would be your Robert Browning
and you would be my ‘Lizbeth Barrett--:
you are my poetry, the rhythm and metre of my soul,
you are my painting, the portrait in my mind,
you are my music, my perfect pitch.
It is through you I speak.
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
La FEE VERTE
One of those muggy summer evenings in New Orleans– the heat, my god, the heat! The air almost stifling– humidity so high the damp clung to your shoulders and you felt you were walking through a sack of wet clothes! I’d come to a party in one of those dark shabby little streets that cling to the edges of the Quarter– off Poydras, I think it was– in somebody’s house– I can’t remember who or if I ever knew– just an uninvited guest, a friend of a friend, but they were nice enough to let me in and make me comfortable. I found myself in a big stuffed chair in a foyer off the main room where the party was going on– not knowing how to join in right away, I listened to the voices and laughter, the music, and saw people passing the door. In this foyer there was a painting on the wall– a man standing between two chairs where a couple of pretty women were sitting, all of them looking out at the viewer with odd little smiles. Then somebody came into the room behind me and handed me a drink. The drink, in a tall glass was yellow-green– an opalescent cloud floated within. I sampled it– a bitter taste at first– I recoiled, then tried again– an overpowering aroma of anise and– something else– sugar-taste somewhere– my head befuddled and a curious softness on the tongue, a burn in the gut. Then– quite suddenly– a sharp taste that seemed to awaken the senses in my throat and satisfy me beyond my expectations. I had another swallow and– greedy– gulped the rest of the drink down and looked around for more. And at that moment, the man in the painting got down and left the room.
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
THE DESERTED GRAVEYARD :
EPITAPH
Sunday afternoon mid-winter:
Here’s end of mortal charm and grace,
this hillside where briars claim the footage—
weather wears away a few remaining names.
broom-straw roots between the sunken mounds,
and long-legged brown spiders climb over field-stones.
“We are nothing more nor less than what we were.
Let the earth have what it wants.
We are dust returning to the ground.”
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2022
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Jack Peachum Poem
HOBO CHRISTMAS PAST
(Hannibal, Ill., 1960)
Old toothless queen with rheumy eyes,
I'm seeing you again, across a smoky fire–
near an underpass, hillside grey with weather.
You hold forth over a can of hot soup,
stopping to guzzle wine, mutter in your whiskers,
something about peace and love
– a wink at the words–
wind cries in the pines overhead,
snowflakes are dancing, falling on the siding,
a December afternoon turning bitter cold.
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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Jack Peachum Poem
Climbing into one side of the narrow bed,
stretching out beside you
--we lay together in the cool morning
of the hospital room—
Dawn crawling over the parking lot outside,
light remembering itself in the room,
and you turned,
speaking from withdrawals of sleep,
“Fifty years just isn’t enough.”
06/05/’18
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2018
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