54 Gillygate - The Pink Pony
History: The Pink Pony, often celebrated for its inclusive atmosphere, was more than just a pub; it was a cultural hub for York’s LGBTQ+ community. It hosted drag shows, theme nights, and other events that brought people together in a time when there were few queer-friendly spaces. Its presence in a prominent location on Gillygate made it a visible representation of the queer community in York. Spaces like The Pink Pony allowed individuals to express their identities freely and partake in community-based events. The Pink Pony was named as a queer homage to its original pub name of The Bay Horse Although the pub is no longer in operation, its legacy lives on through memories shared by those who frequented it. It closed down in 2013.
Some of Those Men Who Have Ruined Love
He says he wants to ruin me,
I think of Hemingway.
“What do you wanna do, ruin me?”
He says “yes”. I didn’t mention Hemingway.
Now I’m thinking of daiquiris.
Rum-soaked sponge
to wash you down with. Oh, baba.
And if it doesn’t go so well
I’ll just shoot myself, I guess.
Shotgun match made in Heaven,
Or Bar NY. Or some pretentious sounding name.
Some club in the mountains,
with Boy George. Or David Gest.
It's always an option.
What would Gertrude Stein have said?
The tenderest buttons,
like a shopping list in Dali-mart.
The baskets are an upturned,
hollowed out rhinoceros.
Baguette in the horn. Boujie.
And Hollywood flares at the nostrils.
Melting, like the seats in the back of your car
In the midsummer, nice dream, huh?
Time melts now between collisions.
I worry too much about who is
and who he isn't, problematic now.
I still think about Che Guevara. El Fuser!
His face was everywhere at a certain point in my life.
Maybe it still is, but I’ve tuned him out.
What do you wanna do? Steal my heart?
The CIA don’t want that, surely.
They can tap my phone and see my hand anytime.
You wanna do what? Rue in that too?
He says it’s gotten a little weird now.
I still haven’t mentioned Hemingway.
I don’t know if I got all my words from Hemingway
or all of the confessions of Anthony Bourdain.
Photo received. And there it is.
Anthony Bourdain wouldn’t have sent a dick pic.
Just as things had “gotten weird”.
He’d have asked about Hemingway and cracked open the rum.
He tells me I’m Chessington World of Adventures,
and pulls out two tickets to the log flume.
He could break off great chunks and dip freely.
Zero reservations.
My hair would still be wet,
while I’m left wondering how he knew about Hemingway.
Prompt
Stand outside the site of the former gay bar, now kitchen shop. Even though the space has been repurposed, imagine the sounds that used to fill it: laughter, music, hushed conversations, the clink of glasses. Close your eyes and feel the presence of the bodies that once occupied this space. How does this comparatively empty, forgotten space hold its past? How can you connect with something you’ve never seen but can almost feel? Walk the length of the shop window, as though searching for something lost in time. What scent still lingers on?
Connect the two stories of the building in your mind. What connects a gay bar full of drag queens with a kitchen fittings shop? Will you still find me in the kitchen at parties?
Write a poem that captures the energy of an encounter in this hinterspace between stories. Think about the ghosts of moments shared here: secret flirtations, fleeting glances, hidden trysts. Now imagine them set in a show home kitchen. How does a place hold memories differently from a person?