Alli Armijo // Blog Writer
The critically-acclaimed poet Richard Siken holds nothing back when it comes to love. He is ruthless and unapologetic, detailing just how blissful –and equally terrifying– romance can be. But one must consider, based on how Siken writes about love, does love have to be short-lived? To what degree should we validate Siken’s authority on the subject? After all, Siken writes his world-renowned chapbook Crush from the perspective of panic. His poems explore themes of death and relationships that could be considered “too good to be true,” instilling the feeling that someone is pushing you to finish –whether it be the poem, the stanza, or the relationship– the distinction of which the audience may never know.
Being a lesbian myself, I resonated deeply with Siken’s exploration of shame, guilt, and intense (almost detrimental) introspection. Reading his poems, I fund comfort in the intangibility of positive queer love stories, especially those which persist and survive through terrifying circumstances. However, my complacency with his poems was neither healthy nor able to be disregarded. My disposition made me ask myself: Why do I feel comfort in knowing queer relationships are doomed from the start? Is this because it is better to set low expectations to avoid disappointment? Or is it because failed queer relationships are the norm? Is it because our culture perpetuates the idea that doomed love is normal?
On one hand, I could argue that Siken frames his poems in a pessimistic light to use shame as a landing pad to represent quote-unquote “realistic” queer relationships. With this being said, would it be fair to argue that Siken seeks to protect his queer audience with his words? Or do his poems achieve the opposite effect? In other words, does gay shame, as Siken portrays it, perpetuate toxic gay relationships by establishing them as the norm? I don’t think so.
To look specifically at his words, I would argue that Siken’s portrayal of queer love is inarticulable, but this is not necessarily a critique. Rather, he frames queer love as an intangible idea, an abstraction, which manifests itself in different forms for different people. He presents an absolute experience that brings the potential for bliss and destruction to each page, conflating an emotional, sensual eroticism with violence. Specifically in, “I Had a Dream About You,” Siken reveals the depths of knowing someone so intensely that you will do anything to see them live while at the same time completely understanding why they want to die, and possibly sympathizing with it too. This work is beautiful and horrific, and we are unfortunately blessed with the deep understanding of both perspectives through Siken’s words.
In this way, Siken forces the reader to play with the concepts of fantasy and reality in queer relationships, often leaving the reader wondering how they can distinguish the two. But perhaps more importantly, are we, as readers, supposed to force a distinction? One could argue that queer relationships are a constant negotiation of fantasy and reality, and it is up to the participants to draw the boundaries and interrogate each other through themselves. This power reveals the potential for joy and misery trapped on the same page. The two extremes negotiate their potential through words, and we, as the spectators, are forced to be unconsciously active participants.
Thus, Siken’s Crush is an important consideration in all things queer, all things relationships, and most importantly, all things queer relationships. In depicting queer love through tragedy, he calls on the reader to examine how something so innocent and pure can also be so doomed. A proper reading might leave the reader discombobulated, panicked, or maybe even content – I know I resonated with all of the above. And I think feeling any or all of those emotions is a good thing; it shows you’re listening.