by Margaret Newman In life, things are seldom easy. Falling in love is the easy part. Loving someome who is addicted to drugs is the hard part. So says poet Edward Steinhardt in his new book of verse, Letters to Ryan, released this month.
Steinhardt wrote the book over a three year period, from 1999 to 2003. The poems, he said, started out as love poems to his boyfriend Ryan. Then they became poems of frustration after Ryan revealed a drug dependence, due largely to the rejection of family and fundamentalist Christianity to Ryan's sexual orientation.
Nonetheless, Edward and Ryan continued their love affair, decidedly passionate and intense, as portrayed in the book. "I loved Ryan as I have loved no one else," says Edward. "There is no rule-book for those who fall in love. And there is certainly no rule-book on how to deal with the effects of a loved one on drugs."
Steinhardt said he was naive to the actions and reactions to someone using cocaine. "All I know is that I had this very intense love for and with Ryan. It was truly remarkable. But I sure as hell didn't know how to react to the effects of drug-addiction, and things like unfaithfulness or broken appointments. When drugs are involved, it's like being in a pin-ball machine. You just hope and pray someone else puts the machine on "tilt" or unplugs the machine."
Ryan
I thought of you today,
You, my lover of the tender heart.
I smile when I think of you—
And the treasure that you are:
The things that you are and do...
I send these thoughts to you
Like paper boats upon a stream;
I push them off on water diamonds
For your sweetest night-time dreams.
(from Letters to Ryan, page viii)
One way to unplug the machine is the idea of drug rehabilitation. Another way is therapy. But therapy by who? And by whose ulterior motives? Ryan's family was pressuring him to go to a "Christian" psychiatrist. During one evening together, Ryan confided to Edward "I was supposed to go see a Christian therapist tonight. But I chose you instead."
"Ryan used to tell me, 'Some day I would like to have your level of understanding.' Looking back, I think I failed Ryan. One thing I have always prayed for is the wisdom of Solomon. I wish I had been more patient. I just couldn't look at what was going on from the God-view. And everything was too new for there to be any retrospect."
And how did the book come about? Edward explains he had been engaged to be married (to a woman) just a few years prior. "I was in love with her...but with Ryan? Gosh. My love for Ryan was ten times anything I had ever known." Steinhardt points to the quote used in Letters to Ryan by the great artist and poet Michelangelo, "Whenever I behold someone who possesses any talent or displays any dexterity of mind, who can do or say something more appropriately than the rest of the world, I am compelled to fall in love with him; and then give myself up to him so entirely that I am no longer my own property, but wholly his." Edward said that is exactly how it was with Ryan. "It was painful to be away from Ryan. I had given myself to him that completely. Now I understand those tearful reunion of loved-ones at airports. It happens, that I know."
The book is so frank and honest, Gary Hirshberg, in his Foreword to the book, said "Letters to Ryan lays-bare our collective soul." He said, "Steinhardt has written the verse of the 'everygayman.' Who amongst us hasn't lived through the exhilaration of meeting 'The Other,' that joy to the depth of our soul that tells us we have finally found our other half?'" Hirshberg goes on to say that many gay relationships are met with great obstacles that must be overcome. And that people must learn through therapy to love themselves first and foremost, before they can love someone else.
Hirshberg said, "In reading such raw and revealing lines as Steinhardt has written we are able to see a reflection of ourselves, we are able to step back and see ourselves as the boys we are: boys of such deep need:
"Was he ever mine?
Was he ever his himself
To give for me?"
(from "Discharged")
Hirshberg is quick to note that "To describe Letters to Ryan as a parable on co-dependency would certainly be accurate."
Besides Hirshberg's Foreword, there is also an informative Afterword by Dr. Jane Anton. She offers a handy list of things to look for in selecting a good therapist. She says, "If you put the same kind of effort into finding a therapist that you do into buying a car, you are likely to succeed." Dr. Anton says it won't likely be easy at first. "This may seem like a lot to accomplish, and no one does it all at once. However, starting somewhere and taking one step at a time, will take you wherever you need to go."
In Edward's "Note from the Author," he makes clear that he and Ryan are no longer in the place described in the book. He says, "What is really fantastic from my perspective is that the poems now seem to be about two other people; for neither Ryan nor myself are in the place herein described."
But that begs the question, are Edward and Ryan together now? Edward is silent for a moment. When he says, "no" it is low and soft. He says when he and Ryan met in late 2003, the opportunity presented itself. "But I was intent on going to Key West then." Going to live in Key West provided six years of material for Edward's book, Standing Pelican: Key West Poems & Stories, a collection of poems, short stories and a play, all about Key West. The book was well-received and has a foreword by John Hemingway, grandson of Ernest Hemingway.
Key West was not without its challenges for Edward. In 2006 he was hit head-on by an SUV while he drove a scooter. He had to be airlifted 125 miles to Ft. Lauderdale with several broken bones, including bleeding in the brain. Edward was bedridden for two months, then had to learn to get around via a wheelchair, a walker and then a cane. After he returned to work, the first question an acquaintance asked was why did God let him survive an accident which is normally a fatality in Key West? "The first thing I said was that I was to publish Letters to Ryan, and any other book God blessed me to undertake." Which is certainly true. Two others books besides Letters to Ryan were released this year, Sleeping with Rilke: Poems & Prayers (a book of poems) and Papa's Big Fish: Stories of Youthful Adventure at the Hemingway's in Key West. The latter book is comprised of stories about life at the Hemingway house in Key West during the 1930s.
The question must be posed, "Does Ryan know a book has come out about him?" "There's no surprise there!" says Edward. "The second to last time Ryan and I were together he said, 'I figured it would be out by now!' He said he would just wait to read it (the book) after it came out. Ryan really admired my work, admired my poems about he and I. I read many of the poems to Ryan. A great many of the poems are love poems, after all."
Originally, the poems were going to remain private. "But then I thought, 'What if such a book could help others who had a loved one on drugs?' I mean, if we're talking about confessional poetry, no-holds-barred poetry on love and missing the one you love, it hadn't been done to this degree before. It's risky, throwing yourself out there so people can read your most-private thoughts. But I'm a firm believer in tests. In testing God, per se. I decided if the book could help just one person, then the book will have done its job." The second part of that test was contingent on whether a professional psychologist would write a foreword to the book. "Then I had two professionals on board." Gary Hirshberg, a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, wrote a Foreword to the book, and Dr. Jane Anton wrote an Afterword. "That's when I knew for sure the book was to be published."
Edward says he has a sense of peace about the book now, that it is released. He says there are two things going. "I hope the book helps others who have a loved one on drugs. That's really important to me. And I hope it is to Ryan." Falling in love with someone is the most-special thing in the world. It can truly be a noble thing. I hope others can see the love, but also at the same time exercise patience. "Wisdom sometimes is a hard-sought commodity," he says.
The second part is that Edward still loves Ryan as much as he always has. "I guess the book in itself is another love poem to Ryan," he said. In a "Note to the Reader" at the beginning of the book, Edward says, "Lastly, dear reader, I do hope that you will be able to see the great thread of love that runs through this diary. For truly, they constitute for me the indomitable love I have—and will always have—for Ryan."
Edward says the book is also a celebration for those who survive incredible opposition. There can be such hatred, such darkness in religion and those who would use it to oppose others." He points to Donald Hall's quote, "The poet who survives is the poet to celebrate. The human being who confronts darkness and defeats it is the most admirable being."
MORE CAN BE READ ABOUT EDWARD STEINHARDT AND LETTERS TO RYAN BY GOING TO www.Margaretstreetbooks.com
If You Were Here
I can't get to sleep.
I roll over
On your side of the bed
And think if you were here
We would have been
Asleep by now.
I know I'm keyed-up,
Because I can see you
In exactly 12 hours.
The clock has told me this,
My digital you loved
To set to wake by—
At least when it worked
Out that way, that is...
"Just 15 more minutes"
You would whisper.
And we would grab
On to the ends
Of our separate dreams again.
My dear Ryan.
This is your sixth night in rehab.
And this is the seventh day
Since I have seen your face...
Put on that determined look
I have seen so many
Times on your face.
Be the soldier
I know you to be.
When we see each other tomorrow,
The armor can fall away.
Let me hold you.
Then together we will put
Our armor back on—
Piece by piece.
And then, as best I can,
I will go forward
And remove the stones
From before your chariot.
That will then be
One day less of rocky road.
My dear, if you were here,
We would have been
Asleep by now.
Even soldiers sleep.
(from Letters to Ryan, page 104)
Early Sunday Morning
We are folded into one another
As only lovers can be.
Your head rests
On the inside of my arm,
And our legs are intertwined
Like tree limbs.
It is early Sunday morning.
Your deep breathing
Mirrors my own,
Here in the darkness
On Brookshire.
When I leave and return to bed,
You automatically
Take my hand or arm,
Guiding me into your sleep.
I nestle into you
This cold Sunday morning,
And think how life
Cannot be better than this.
(from Letters to Ryan, page 64)
Cutting Ryan's Hair
You sat on the edge of my tub
As I ran the clippers
Through your hair.
Clumps of your hair
Fell like snowflakes
As the noise of my small engine
Of vibrating, crossing blades
Filled-up the silence between us.
As you moved to shake hair
From your shoulders,
I bade you to sit still;
For you would
Have to wear my mistake
Like some badly-shorn sheep
Sent out to the field again
To grow his beauty back.
There were close calls, surely;
When I almost cut too close.
But all in all, my mental "oops"
Did not need to be given voice,
Except for the "turn right,"
And "turn left, now."
Your implicit trust was heartwarming,
On a January evening
When the wind blew cold
Just outside the window.
You turned to face me finally,
And your eyes were hopeful
That I'd done my magic right.
You finally grabbed the mirror,
Looked at your reflection,
And turned your head
From side to side.
Save an errant hair,
You were pleased,
In those few sculptured
Norman Rockwell moments
(from Letters to Ryan, page 58)
Avec Amour, Ryan:
I'm Used to You Now
The Southern Belle Supper Club.
A pianist, an ear-ring
Dangling from his ear,
Plays Jazz with some
A pianist, an ear-ring
Dangling from his ear,
Plays Jazz with some
Broadway thrown in.
His tip jar is full.
Everyone who leans
Against the bar is animated.
The quiet ones
Are seated alone.
Someone says "We've got
To sing Happy Birthday!"
The pianist does a quick refrain,
Jazzed-up. It's suddenly
His tip jar is full.
Everyone who leans
Against the bar is animated.
The quiet ones
Are seated alone.
Someone says "We've got
To sing Happy Birthday!"
The pianist does a quick refrain,
Jazzed-up. It's suddenly
Radio City Music Hall.
Everyone is singing.
Then the pianist goes into Cabaret:
"Life is a cabaret, ol' chum,
Life is a cabaret..."
Yes, life is a cabaret...
I don't go out as often anymore.
I'm writing again.
And the tug and pull
Of daily life seems
To beckon more...
Other things, especially
After September Eleven,
Seem more important...
* * *
Frank Merlo never said
He loved Tennessee Williams.
What he did say, near the end,
Was, "No, don't go.
I'm used to you now."
That's the way
I think of you now, my dear—
Although I do find myself
Hoping to sort-out your face
From among the crowds,
The grocery, or the dim din
Of the clubs.
I hope now to just maintain
The look of your face
And the sound of your voice
In the empty rooms
I now find myself
Before you become
Just a steady blur—
Since I have no photo of you...
And you just become
(In memory)
My Lawrence of Arabia
Fading away
In some incomprehensible
Midwest sandstorm...
While I am now content with myself—
(As one must be who is left alone)—
I still miss your tender kiss
And tight embrace.
And in the lonely hour
I think of you,
And wonder where you are,
And hope you have
Found the salve
You sought for your soul—
And can now sidestep the trains
That used to come straight at you.
I wrote to you two months ago.
And while I ventured
We work out our differences,
Your silence spoke
Of the depth of your pain.
...And I feel it.
But I did thank you,
Remember, for your love?
I said, from knowing you,
That love can be noble.
For the blame is no one's.
Things just happen.
For I see you now, dear,
As part of Laura's menagerie:
The glass unicorn,
Fragile, delicate—
And very breakable.
And for that,
I love you all the more.
Even as I age, I still explore
The quiet countries within me.
But I didn't know
That in our travels
We are accompanied
By the ghosts of who
And where we were.
It is a gentle memory,
Like a drizzling rain of reminder:
Of regret, yes,
But also of the smiling soul.
For emblazoned
On the retina of the soul
Is the Polaroid
That freezes once and for all
What we elect to remember.
My dear, I will always carry you
In the satchel of my heart.
I smile at the thought of you
As I open doors and go
Down roads I have not seen.
For though love may undergo
The purgatory of time and distance,
Myth and remonstration
Of such soul-good passion
Becomes the engine
For all that may follow...
* * *
Donnie, the bartender,
Has replenished my drink.
Then the pianist goes into Cabaret:
"Life is a cabaret, ol' chum,
Life is a cabaret..."
Yes, life is a cabaret...
I don't go out as often anymore.
I'm writing again.
And the tug and pull
Of daily life seems
To beckon more...
Other things, especially
After September Eleven,
Seem more important...
* * *
Frank Merlo never said
He loved Tennessee Williams.
What he did say, near the end,
Was, "No, don't go.
I'm used to you now."
That's the way
I think of you now, my dear—
Although I do find myself
Hoping to sort-out your face
From among the crowds,
The grocery, or the dim din
Of the clubs.
I hope now to just maintain
The look of your face
And the sound of your voice
In the empty rooms
I now find myself
Before you become
Just a steady blur—
Since I have no photo of you...
And you just become
(In memory)
My Lawrence of Arabia
Fading away
In some incomprehensible
Midwest sandstorm...
While I am now content with myself—
(As one must be who is left alone)—
I still miss your tender kiss
And tight embrace.
And in the lonely hour
I think of you,
And wonder where you are,
And hope you have
Found the salve
You sought for your soul—
And can now sidestep the trains
That used to come straight at you.
I wrote to you two months ago.
And while I ventured
We work out our differences,
Your silence spoke
Of the depth of your pain.
...And I feel it.
But I did thank you,
Remember, for your love?
I said, from knowing you,
That love can be noble.
For the blame is no one's.
Things just happen.
For I see you now, dear,
As part of Laura's menagerie:
The glass unicorn,
Fragile, delicate—
And very breakable.
And for that,
I love you all the more.
Even as I age, I still explore
The quiet countries within me.
But I didn't know
That in our travels
We are accompanied
By the ghosts of who
And where we were.
It is a gentle memory,
Like a drizzling rain of reminder:
Of regret, yes,
But also of the smiling soul.
For emblazoned
On the retina of the soul
Is the Polaroid
That freezes once and for all
What we elect to remember.
My dear, I will always carry you
In the satchel of my heart.
I smile at the thought of you
As I open doors and go
Down roads I have not seen.
For though love may undergo
The purgatory of time and distance,
Myth and remonstration
Of such soul-good passion
Becomes the engine
For all that may follow...
* * *
Donnie, the bartender,
Has replenished my drink.
"On the House," he says in his wink.
It is the momentum to continue,
Even as I go forward,
Going down the interstate
Of this life,
Stopping at the stands,
The rest stops,
Filling-up with fuel
To continue on.
As I continue on...
Here, at the Southern Belle,
Diana Krall sings
It is the momentum to continue,
Even as I go forward,
Going down the interstate
Of this life,
Stopping at the stands,
The rest stops,
Filling-up with fuel
To continue on.
As I continue on...
Here, at the Southern Belle,
Diana Krall sings
"Cry Me a River."
I'm getting ready
To head toward the door,
Where the sidewalks
Go each and every way.
I will take my practiced way home,
Past the sleeping houses;
The windows like eyelids
Lowered in sleep.
It's getting late.
Donnie is going to close-up tonight.
I'm getting ready
To head toward the door,
Where the sidewalks
Go each and every way.
I will take my practiced way home,
Past the sleeping houses;
The windows like eyelids
Lowered in sleep.
It's getting late.
Donnie is going to close-up tonight.
"Edward!" says Cole,
The other bartender.
He gives me a firm handshake.
The other bartender.
He gives me a firm handshake.
"Goodnight!"
He's leaving early,
Out into the night
Into which I too must go.
He's leaving early,
Out into the night
Into which I too must go.
"Goodnight good Cole," I say.
And I mean it- 'cause he is.
I'll give Suzi a hug, too.
And then I'll be on my way.
I will leave behind me
The gentle synthesis
Of music and soul:
Keyboard and percussion
Calculated to the beat of one's heart...
The album is The Look of Love.
(Fade-out)
The bar's being wiped down.
The CD goes to the next selection.
And I mean it- 'cause he is.
I'll give Suzi a hug, too.
And then I'll be on my way.
I will leave behind me
The gentle synthesis
Of music and soul:
Keyboard and percussion
Calculated to the beat of one's heart...
The album is The Look of Love.
(Fade-out)
The bar's being wiped down.
The CD goes to the next selection.
"I've forgotten,
Just like I should,"
Diana Krall sings.
Yes. I've forgotten,
Just like I should.
And I pray for a steady, restful
Dreamless sleep
Just like I should,"
Diana Krall sings.
Yes. I've forgotten,
Just like I should.
And I pray for a steady, restful
Dreamless sleep
(from Letters to Ryan, page 191)
