Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
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Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
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Poems from "Interpretive Work"

Butch Poem 6: A Countertenor Sings Handel’s Messiah

Seven verses in, he has stepped out from the tuxed 

and taffetaed quartet of soloists.  He has begun to sing:

Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call 

his son Emmanuel.  Amplified by good acoustics, the hall 

is rustling accompaniment to the countertenor’s solo: 


Lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid.

Arise, shine; for thy light is come.  From my seat 

next to my parents, high in the mezzanine, 


I can see heads turning, bending toward each other, 

toward the program, small lights coming on

above the paper.  My parents restrain 

themselves.  But the rest of the hall 

is turning to the biography.  Is lifting

opera glasses.  Is straining ears to hear him:


Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, 

and the ears of the deaf unstopped. He is singing 

the alto’s part in her key, his voice light and clear.


Whispering underscores the music: 

   What is this high, sweet voice in a tuxedo?

I am transfixed. I want to reach under his starched 

shirtfront and find a different sex.  Listen to him—


He was despised and rejected of men; a man 

of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.

He’s singing the score and another story alongside it:


He hid not his face from shame.  Through

these old words, he is making song 

of the drag queen and the bulldyke.

Let him sing without the accompaniment


of rustle.  Let him sing without any doubt

between body and voice: high but not shrill, 

more lovely than the wide-skirted soprano, 

the chunky tenor, the dapper bass.  I watch 

his shine-parted hair, his weight shift at key change.


Thou art gone up on high, thou hast led captivity 

captive, and received gifts for men.  


Afterwards, in the bar, where anemones

splay open and salmon flick through

canals designed for our wonder, no one

mentions the countertenor.  My parents,

I think, are trying to navigate the appropriate

path of the moment, as am I.  But he’s all 

I can think of, his rolled rs, Adam’s apple

lifting his tie at crescendo.  Onstage, 


Then shall be brought to pass the saying 

that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.


billed as high culture, this unsettlement, 

this beauty applauded at last.

Back to "Interpretive Work" (Arktoi Books/Red Hen Press, 2008)

Most of the poems in Interpretive Work were published before content was widely available online.  

I wanted to make some of them more accessible here.

Interpretive Work

www.ebradfield.com

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