Three Toms

Tom Disch, every time I see one of your books
I think of a jazz musician I knew
called Tom Disher. He had long blond hair
kind of like Tom (natch) Petty,
but on reflection maybe was he more handsome;
we had a slightly unpleasant little fling
when I was a young thing
in Hartford, Connecticut.
I've read your blog since then and he definitely
isn't you. Good move, Tom:
location is everything, and also you are gay.
I've never heard of him again,
whereas you are a prolific American poet
and genre writer.

Tom Payne, I met you once
at a party in Islington. I was so impressed.
I knew the person throwing it
and you didn't,
even though you worked at the Daily Telegraph
and back then I was unemployed.
You had written the Rights of Man
as well as a book of pornography
in verse, (unpublished), and she had written a novel.
You were also on the panel of the Arvon
Poetry Competition, the year I entered
but didn't win, and you have had
your thirtieth birthday, whereas I am now
a public relations manager.

Tom Joyce, you were so nice.
You were a 'warden caretaker' in Stepney,
replacing light bulbs and painting over graffiti,
making an unsung artform of public service –
especially to the graffiti artists. Who else
has a private open-air canvas cleaner?
But they never seemed take advantage of it
to develop their depth of engagement with the milieu.
You even let me take your picture.
And then you left, and no one knows
what has become of you,
if you are still an artist
of life the way you were at that time.
And I don't know if you realised, Tom,
but your last name is like a form of graffiti
that causes people like me
to throw up their hands,
for all kinds of reasons.

Author's note:
This poem was written a long time ago, in a spirit of lighthearted homage. The death of Tom Disch on July 4th this year has both shocked the poetry world and given the poem and its context a different complexion. I considered withdrawing it but now offer it up in memoriam, in a month when at least two publications I know of will be publishing memorial issues to this original, difficult, interesting writer. The sentiment in this poem - that Disch is someone in whose tracks it might be hard to follow – will perhaps become even more forceful over time, as his work is assessed in its wholeness and his reputation no doubt grows. His blog, which contains many of his poems from recent years, can be found here.