Rest in poetry, Edward Field

Today's New York Times reports the passing of poet Edward Field at the age of 102.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'd never heard of Mr. Field, something reading his obituary quickly made me regret. So I reached out to our friend Philip Clark to ask whether he knew him, and Philip has kindly authorized me to share his response to the news with you all here:

"Gosh, Steve, I'm so sorry to hear this, and thanks for letting me know. I knew Ed, superficially: I asked him to submit poetry and published a piece of his in The William and Mary Review when I was its poetry editor as an undergraduate. I also did a small feature on him in Velvet Mafia later on, and we exchanged a few e-mails over the years about this and that. He gave a wonderful reading years ago at Westbeth, the artists' building in NYC where he lived, at the time with his longtime partner and collaborator Neil Derrick. I mean, everyone knew how old he was, so this isn't unexpected, but at times, it seemed like Ed would outlive everyone.

"I lost track of him a couple of years ago, and he didn't reply to my last e-mail (inquiring about something related to either the writer Alfred Chester or poet Ralph Pomeroy, if I recall correctly), but he was vibrant and productive until then. His last book that I'm aware of--Voyage to Destruction: The Moroccan Letters of Alfred Chester--which he edited, and which is another fascinating contribution—was published in 2022, and when I contacted him about it, he was still feisty.

"His poetry is very accessible, so he'd be a good choice for infrequent poetry readers. Frequent pop culture references; he's credited as one of the first, if not the first, to do this. Take a look at his poem "Mae West," for example, which must be online somewhere and is my favorite of his. If his memoir, The Man Who Would Marry Susan Sontag (which isn't him—that's a reference to Chester), is in print, it would also be a great choice."

And here, in Mr. Field's honor, is that poem (first published in the July 15, 1974, issue of The New Yorker):

Mae West

She comes on drenched in a perfume called Self Satisfaction

from feather boa to silver pumps.

She does not need to be loved by you

though she’ll give you credit for good taste.

Just because you say you love her

she’s not throwing herself at your feet in gratitude.



Every other star reveals how worthless she feels

by crying when the hero says he loves her,

or how unhoped-for the approval is

when the audience applauds her big number —

but Mae West takes it as her due.

She knows she’s good.



She expects the best for herself

And knows she’s worth what she costs,

and she costs plenty.

She’s not giving anything away.



She enjoys her admirers, fat daddy or muscleman,

and doesn’t confuse vanity and sex,

though she never turns down pleasure,

lapping it up.



Above all she enjoys her Self,

swinging her body that says, Me me me me.

Why not have a good time?

As long as you amuse me, go on,

I like you slobbering over my hand, big boy.

I have a right to.



Most convincing, we know all this

not by her preaching it

but by her presence — it’s no act.

Every word and look and movement

spells independence:

She likes being herself.



And we who don’t

can only look on, astonished.



Octavio Roca, who also noted the news, drew my attention to this passage in the NYT obituary:

"Then, in the mid-1950s, Mr. Field met the poet Frank O’Hara. Their brief love affair altered the course of Mr. Field’s life and work. 'Frank O’Hara showed me the way,' Mr. Field wrote for outhistory.org. Mr. O’Hara’s ability to write easily and unselfconsciously as a gay man gave Mr. Field the courage to follow his instincts and loosen up with his own writing. The result was a breakthrough in his poetry."

Based on all that, I'm inclined to nominate something by Field for our 2027 reading list. Both Amazon and Alibris sell used copies of several of Field's books, so I've ordered a couple of them to check out his work for myself. Stay tuned!