Poetry Night 2002
February 9th1312 Franklin Avenue
Louisville, Colorado
This list is not complete, and the order is probably wrong, but it's too late now. Hope you all had as wonderful a time as I did! -Stan
The Speakers
Molly Bantz
[Something inspired by "Naked and Free"]Stan James
Fat Guy at the Pool — A Sonnet
by Christopher RiegerWhen morning mists from noontime skies are shed
The sun glints off the pool beneath the tree.
And wind is hushed with cool expectancy
As hairy feet upon the springboard tread.
A bulging man with turquoise diving gear
His timid toe into the water dunks.
And girded round with red elasticked trunks
Goes wobbling down the board with blimplike rear.
The plastic groans beneath him, long and slow
Oh, plodding, plodding, goes the jiggling mass
A pallid bulk of bone and fat and gas,
His eyes survey the azure depths below.
Oh, bouncing, bouncing, like a dancing bear
And, with a stretch, is launched into the air
Aloft the man feels free from fatty freight
A wondrous, awestruck glow lights up his face
Mysterious that such bulk should have such grace
Suspended in midair there is no weight
To be an airship rising to the stars!
To be a golden eagle soaring high!
To be a hummingbird, bat, a fly!
To be a bounding cosmonaut on Mars!
And like a planet's dance in space is free
His body; heart ascending, nearly breaks
And spinning skyward, freezes as he makes
The pinnacle of his trajectory.
Oh, God of silver sky look down on he
And grant a softened landing, mercifully
But suddenly a shadow clouds his face
And panic grips his heart; descent proceeds
And thrashing as he plummets; terror feeds
Accelerating at tremendous pace
The silence which envelopes all his fears
Is shattered by the catastrophic splash!
Then rising bubbly foam from liquid crash
And, surfacing, the wincing man appears.
Retreating from the pool with sheepish growl
The front of him stung pink from water's smack
and to the tree's cool shade comes dripping back
He lays his weight upon an orange towel.
And as his thoughts flow gently into sleep,
A dream of peace, descending to the deep.
(2000)
Steve Dundorf
Pillow Boy
by Steve DundorfFluffy and puffy pillows
Come hence pillow boy
Produce me a pillow!
Oh, how I long for that cushiony feel
A place for my rump to rest
A place for my side to stay
Oh pillow boy, come my way
Oh no! they've all gone away
(2002)
Matthew Kelley
The Road Not Taken
by Robert FrostTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Jonathan Finger
Unfortunately, Jonathan's poem about a certain character from one of the eighties' best movies did not survive beyond the day of its composition and performance.
Jon Novotny
Class Feedback
by Unknown 8th Grade Math Student (presumed failing)I think this is some bull shit
because you are doing so good
and they just need
to respeact you
fuck them bitches
I mad at them and I hope you are to
so keep it up Mr. Novotny
OK man
see you later
(2002)
Timothy Shetter
That's the Deal
By Timothy ShetterTim sang this song accompanying himself on guitar. The song is available on CD at www.threetaverns.com.
She haunts my heart with unanswered questions
A winter breeze of cold apprehension
Do I go, Do I stay, what's the answer
Can you tell me?
Is it a faith based step of head learned reason
Or a leap that leaves a heart, broken bleeding?
A subtle hint please, a proper word in season
Can you help me?
(chorus)
My head and my heart they do disagree
The pain of loves threats to kill me
Do I run, Do I hide
What?s the deal?
It's a bumpy ride in my four-wheel drive
Do I stop, shake in fear, or go switch the gears?
Keep plugging along, and understand when
In the pain I know now, lies the happiness then.
(chorus alt.)
My head and my heart the may disagree
The pain of love, it can?t kill me
I will not run, I will not hide
I will love deeper still
'Cuz that?s the deal?
Ariane Major
When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd
by Walt Whitman1
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
2
O powerful western fallen star!
O shades of night - O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear'd - O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless - O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
3
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle - and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.
4
In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat,
Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)
5
Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the
ground, spotting the gray debris,
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown
fields uprisen,
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.
Amy Wise
Elizabeth
By Amy Elizabeth WiseThis evening, facing herself in the bathroom mirror, it is a steady hand that holds brown curls before silver shears. Carefully she snips. Lifts and snips. Lifts and snips until she is entrenched in brown confetti.
Women have always cut hair in mourning or defiance and Elizabeth believes in both. Although the first time she emerged from the bathroom with a shaved smooth head it was out of simplifying.
E's Routine: Roll out of bed. Shift through tubes of oils, wire flowers, photographs of cornfields and decrepit barns to locate last night's coffee cup. Rinse. Refill. Light a cigarette and wake to the sunrise of her next creation.
She had no need for mousse, rubber bands, hairdryers, clips and curlers. So, like any good artist, she eliminated it from the composition. Elizabeth simply shaved it off.
She did not anticipate the reaction of her public—after all, she was being practicalc&em;and while Elizabeth said it did not bother her, one's throat is always raw after people shove meaning in.
Elizabeth understood the consequences of creating—the misinterpretation that comes with presenting—
and so she studied her collage
employed charcoal and oil pastel
to reveal the simple beauty of peeling paint
the kaleidoscope of sunlight through oak leaves
the texture of wood.
Then she turned to herself.
Leah Rahe
Ode to Sisters Three
by Leah RaheI never told you why,
On that overcast afternoon in July, I nibbled your baby
fingernails
with my pearly whites
It was because I'd already eaten my own.
And after all, it was my concern for you being shown.
I never told you why,
On one of those boring yet mischievious Saturday's
When you were one and I was five,
I hand fed you dirt, to your surprise
because I wanted to see
if you'd believe it was chocolate
sprinkles.
I never told you why,
After a fish dinner one night,
When I locked us in the bathroom with a
spoon and knife,
and tried to feed you your poopy
I did it because you have to try new things in life.
I never told you why,
It bugged me like a fire ant up my thigh—
When you saw how hard I tried,
to make you lash back,
because you never cried.
What Bitterness Does
by Leah RaheBitterness
of the Soul
strips The Heart
of
compassion
like a lime tweaks the tastebuds.
Bitterness
of the Soul
floods The Heart
like saliva in a mouth cavern when a dill pickle hits
the thoughts
Bitterness
of the Soul
pervades other's hearts
like your own putrid fart where no on but you knows the origin,
but still experiences it.
LaSal
The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord TennysonThis reading was dedicated to Massoud, an Afghani who fought diligently against the Taliban until he was assasinated by a "Talibaner" posing as a journalist just a few days before 9-11.
1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Heather Faust
[???]
by HeatherFaustJennifer Gilmore
In liu of Jen's beautiful and largely impromptu piece "On the River", we present her short poem from the Poetry Night 2002 guest book:It was drizzling a little bit
On a Thursday
The leaves on the trees
were of amber hue
The voice of the sun was
subtle and low.
The breeze embraced my face
as if to kiss me.
I close my eyes
and breathe in this
I close my eyes
and breathe in this
On a Thursday
Intermission
Molly Bantz
This reading was dedicated to the victims of 9-11 ...Jason Bragg
She
by Jason BraggThis reading was dedicated to Jason's girlfriend, Shannon.
Coffee smells good, SHE even better
Why? Don't ask - enjoy
Scenery beautiful, SHE even more
Wow. Wow!
Commitment? I don't think so.
But SHE asks, wants, loves
Incrementally I succumb, as in quicksand
But not as sticky
Romance. Mistakes. All a blur...
But not SHE — SHE is crystal to me.
Then, G O N E ... I am gone.
But SHE remains, hurt, sad, beautiful.
I hurt, SHE even more
Until I am claimed, calmed, cleared
Suddenly all is clear!
Like a white knight I charge to the rescue
But is SHE needing saving anymore?
I hope, committed — SHE wavers, not ready to trust
So I wait as SHE heals, waiting, loving, hoping, praying
Someday, Someday, SHE and I will be...
John Mathews
Bye Bye Bye
by Justin TimberlakeThis reading was dedicated to Jason Bragg
I'm doing this tonight
You're probably gonna start a fight
I know this can't be right
Hey baby come on
I loved you endlessly
And you weren't there for me
So now it's time to leave and make it alone
I know that I can't take no more
It ain't no lie
I wanna see you out that door
Baby bye bye bye
Don't wanna be a fool for you
Choose another player in your game for two
Sure made me
But it ain't no lie
Baby bye bye bye
(Bye bybe)
Don't really wanna make it tough
I just wanna tell you that I had enough
Might sound crazy
But it ain't no lie
Baby bye bye bye
Just hit me with the truth
Now, girl you're more than welcome to
So give me one good reason
Baby come on
I lived for you and me
And now I've really come to see
That life would be much better once you're gone
I know that I can't take no more
It ain't no lie
I wanna see you out that door
Baby bye bye bye
Don't wanna be a fool for you
Choose another player in your game for two
Sure made me
But it ain't no lie
Baby bye bye bye
(Bye bye)
Don't really wanna make it tough
I just wanna tell you that I had enough
Might sound crazy
But it ain't no lie
Baby bye bye bye
I'm giving up I know for sure
I don't wanna be the reason for your love no more
(Bye bye)
I'm checking out I'm signing off
I don't wanna be the loser and I've had enough
I don't wanna be your fool in this game for two
So I'm leaving you behind
(Bye bye)
I don't wanna make it tough
(Make it tough)
But I've had enough
(Bye bye)
And it ain't no lie
Bye bye
Don't wanna be a fool for you
Choose another player in your game for two
(I don't wanna be a fool)
But it ain't no lie
Baby bye bye bye
Don't really wanna make it tough
I just wanna tell you that I had enough
Might sound crazy
But it ain't no lie
Bye bye bye
(2001)
Christopher Rieger
Reflections in a Public Restroom
A poem in ten cantos by Christopher RiegerOriginally written on single-ply toilet paper
Cantos 2, 3, 4, 5, and 8 were read. We are proud to present all 10 Cantos here in their first publication.
I.
Some days work is
Like a cage
I rush about with
Veiled rage
The restroom bids I
Come inside
Its Parnassian stall doors
Open wide
And when the door is
Safely shut
Upon the pot I
Plant my butt
So on this fibrous scroll
I write
Bathed in dim
Fluorescent light
Yet here in this most
Private time
Comes inspiration for
A rhyme
And having thus escaped
The fray
Each stanza lifts me
Far away
Or simply words,
Unmetered verse
That in a moment
Will disperse
For work demands I
Sit no more
Just as my muse
Was at the door!
II.
So much depends upon
This little stall
Life
And death
Love
And hate
Freedom
And fate
Warmth
And breath
Bar the gate
And my delicate hopes
Shall fall
III.
What a catastrophe
It would be
If this poem
Got flushed
I would moan
I would mourn
I'd be utterly crushed
The ladies would cry
The gentlemen too.
And as for me?
I'd pry apart the piping
I'd pry apart the piping
Sweating
Piping prying
Piping flying
Ladies crying
And bathroom fan sighing
Goodbye, goodbye
The ink has bled to a stain
The sweat was shed in vain
The tears would flow
I was too late, fate
Dealt a loss so great
But the world shall never know
No! I shall save it
I shall paste it on the wall
Mercy
Is the greatest gift of all.
IV.
O commodes!
I see you in the toilet stalls!
I see you standing
In rigid porcelain rows
O steadfast commodes!
Round and elongated,
Yellow and black and white
And green, orange, pink, blue,
Grey, gold,
You are every color in the spectrum!
Handles or pull chains,
Or knobs, or buttons,
Or electric eye flushers!
O diverse army of commodes!
I see you in every bathroom
In every home.
In every shop or restaurant,
In every park, every market,
In every workplace.
And each one
A humble servant of mankind.
O commodes!
O mighty, elegant commodes!
V.
Sometimes
Mired in gloom I retire
To the haven of this little room
Praying this sense of
Impending doom will expire
Cast out with holy fire
Sometimes moons rise
Sometimes the light breaks through
My clouded eyes.
In a moment like this
And thinking of heaven
My gaze will ride
Up the vaulting walls and
To the skies.
And barely concealing
This wrenching ecstasy inside
My entropic heart flies
Wild. and like a child I feel
Inside my refuge, towering
My endless paper reel
Spinning like a wheel
And walls ornately tiled.
Is this real?
Or am I already in heaven?
VI.
I think of rhythms
As the sun rising and setting
It begins with the sun
Flame lithe and supple
Flickering and flickering
Eyes flashing
Hands warm sliding
Warm gliding
Hands kneading as to mix
Hands weaving a perpetual spiral
Spiral twisting out, twisting out
Lines converging slowly as by gravity
Stretching tighter, taut,
Ready to snap.
Hands spinning nerves in eddies
Driven rhythm rumbling,
Glowing, building pressure
Eyeballs rolling, heart beating
Pulse quickening as in that rhythm
Hands spinning their spiral
Spirals as a vortex descending
Descending, descending
Then releasing, falling,
Plummeting
Speeding infinitely into a violent collision
Windows break
Dragons roar
Needles pierce
Castles fall
Seas part
Clouds ignite
Fire swells
Swelling slowly outward the explosion
Sweet agony
Sweet agony
And oh, and oh, and
Oh sweet agony
Oh sweet, sweet agony
And like taffy twists and collapses
Stomach crumpling into beds of embers
Lines of sight diverging from a collapsed star
Gasping, gasping
VII.
Sometimes in the bathroom
Strange thoughts come to me
Like what if I came
From far over the sea
In a land where the johns are
Mere holes with no seats
I wonder how strong
My hamstrings would be?
But here a fat promise
Of whatever I seek
And when I am pooping
Or taking a leak
With my roll of the softest-
Made toilet paper sheets
I sit in proud comfort
With legs soft and weak
VIII.
Perched in tropical wood
A man, strong as a bull
And joyously cries full
He strikes a match
And lights the roll.
Doing things no man could
And releasing the fiery thing
Which, sailing down the string
Shines back into his eyes
Glowing, glittering eyes
Completely good
Now staring today
At this sterile roll
Distant fire warms my memory
And the explosion
Of a burning bush
Might have been on T.V.
I miss the fire
I miss the flaming roll
I miss the invisible strings,
Their insistent, invisible pull
And I miss you,
Surveyor of forbidden depths,
Uprooter of trees,
Giant among men,
Missionary wildman,
Hallowed ignitor of the toilet paper.
IX.
Hear the small cry
Beckoning my soul
An immense paper roll
Single ply.
Quickly I pull.
Crooning a tune
I wrap
And wrap
From feet to knees
To lap
And soon, and soon
I am covered, every scrap
Mummylike
In my cocoon.
Pulling the paper
To cardboard ring
I appear a puffy,
Fibrous thing
But sleep now!
And wake me when it's spring
X.
Where is it written
Only kings have thrones?
While peasants toil oppressed
Turning the soil
Honor is not for kings alone
I too am royal
Let them eat cake!
I stretch out my hand,
Extend my command, dispatched
By the lady of the lake
I adjust my scepter
My sword
My crown
My gilded gown
Thrones exist for the peasant's sake
For those who eat cake
And turn the soil
Soon my reverie will end
My knees will bend
I'll set aside the gilded gown
Lay the scepter gently down
And quietly walk away
This throne
Only suits a man
A few moments a day.
Chris O'Brien
Poem
By Ann Boyd, Molly Houck (now Bantz), Stan James, Chris O'Brien, Chara Ramer, Chris Rieger, and Crystal Siermon (now Rieger)When I was in 'Nam
I used to think that the rice paddies were pretty
Evil emanatetd from everywhere
Like the giant peach pit of my nightmares
Blood-red vision and violet dreams
Create images of grand oranges
Steam comes out my backside like a giant fart
Rising above the paddies like a mushroom cloud,
Trembling the trees,
Causing the soft fruit to fall
into
my
hands.
(1998)
An Egg-Timer Story
By Ann Boyd, Molly Houck (now Bantz), Stan James, Chris O'Brien, Chris Rieger, and Crystal Siermon (now Rieger)The river of fluid runs through my brain. So far, the surgery is going well. The doctor makes precise incisions in the grey flesh in order to remove my hemorrhaging tumor. When the operation was over, the doctor asked me how I felt.
"Well," I said, "the pain is gone, but when I came to this hospital I was a man — now I'm a woman!"
Wow! What a change! I can't believe the hospital made such a horrendous mistake. I would rather dance around in my bones than be a woman! What will become of me? How will I live? I've got to think. Think! What will I tell my mother? I sat down and began to dream.
If none of this ever hapened, I would build a cigar factory and sing every night in my orchards. But instead, here I was, transformed into a monster. I grabbed my cloak and ran to the pub. I had to drink a lot to forget the way that bitch treated me. And that's just what I did.
My friends Daryl and Jim-Bob say I was a real riot, singin' and dancin' with the ladies. That must be why I had such good dreams that night. I dreamt the world was acutally made of pink marshmellows. They were the same kind of marshmellows in the "Lucky Charms" cereal. Lucky the Leprechaun was not to fond of the fact that the world was on to his trick. He was going to control our collective minds with red hearts, pink diamonds, yellow stars, green clovers, and purple horseshoes. Or so he thought.
His life ended abruptly the next day, when he was hit by a greyhound bus. And thus ended the tyranny of an evil threat to the world's happiness.
(1998)
Crystal Rieger
Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take The Garbage Out
by Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloopy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts...
The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall...
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fries and rancid meat,
yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late...
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sahra met an awful fate,
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!
Jonathan Finger
Untitled
by Jake "Brown Magic" Braly"The oceans of my mind...
somehow left the shore.
Visions of the horror are
slowly washing away
the dream of what
could be.
So, in essence, I've decided not
to think about it any more
and instead
I will pollute these shores
with the filth that has devoured
me.
I don't know, Maybe it was Utah."
Said Margi Ortiz
(2001)
Christopher Rieger
God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; Bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
(1866)
River
River read several pieces from his hand-written journals with impressive imagery of the california ocean and of heroin addiction.
Stan James
Marriage
by Gregory Corso (1930-2001)This reading was dedicated to Timothy Shetter
Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-
When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, neck strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap—
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son—
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?
O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food—
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce—
But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust—
Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup—
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon
No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking—
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But—imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream...
O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes—
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and—
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished apartment with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!
Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible—
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait — bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.
Little Gidding V, Four Quartets
by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half heard, in the stillness
Between the two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of things shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
(1943)
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