16

LIVES

In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day

X. J. Kennedy

 

 

 

In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day
Rose a lady in skunk with a topheavy sway,
Raised a knobby red finger—all turned from their beer—
While with eyes bright as snowcrust she sang high and clear:

 

“Now who of you’d think from an eyeload of me
That I once was a lady as proud as could be?
Oh I’d never sit down by a tumbledown drunk
If it wasn‘t, my dears, for the high cost of junk.

 

“All the gents used to swear that the white of my calf
Beat the down of the swan by a length and a half.
In the kerchief of linen I caught to my nose
Ah, there never fell snot, but a little gold rose.

 

“I had seven gold teeth and a toothpick of gold,
My Virginia cheroot was a leaf of it rolled
And I’d light it each time with a thousand in cash—
Why the bums used to fight if I flicked them an ash.

 

“Once the toast of the Biltmore, the belle of the Taft,
I would drink bottle beer at the Drake, never draft,
And dine at the Astor on Salisbury steak
With a clean tablecloth for each bite I did take.

 

”In a car like the Roxy I’d roll to the track,

A steel-guitar trio, a bar in the back,
And the wheels made no noise, they turned over so fast,
Still it took you ten minutes to see me go past.

 

“When the horses bowed down to me that I might choose,
I bet on them all, for I hated to lose.
Now I’m saddled each night for my butter and eggs
And the broken threads race down the backs of my legs.

 

“Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass
Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass.
Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young
Or be left—an old barrel with many a bung.

 

“For when time takes you out for a spin in his car
You’ll be hard-pressed to stop him from going too far
And be left by the roadside, for all your good deeds,
Two toadstools for tits and a face full of weeds.”

 

 

All the house raised a cheer, but the man at the bar
Made a phonecall and up pulled a red patrol car
And she blew us a kiss as they copped her away
From that prominent bar in Secaucus, N.J.

Who’s Who

W. H. Auden

 

 

 

 

A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day:
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea:
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.

 

With all his honours on, he sighed for one
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.

The Portrait

Stanley Kunitz

 

 

 

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

Parable of the Four-Poster

Erica Jong

 

 

 

Because she wants to touch him,
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him,
she keeps silent.
Because she wants to kiss him,
she turns away
& kisses a man she does not want to kiss.

 

 

He watches
thinking she does not want him.
He listens
hearing her silence.
He turns away
thinking her distant
& kisses a girl he does not want to kiss.

 

They marry each other—
a four-way mistake.
He goes to bed with his wife
thinking of her.
She goes to bed with her husband
thinking of him.
—& all this in a real old-fashioned four-poster bed.

 

Do they live unhappily ever after?
Of course.
Do they undo their mistakes ever?
Never.
Who is the victim here?
Love is the victim.
Who is the villain?
Love that never dies.

Ed

Louis Simpson

 

 

 

Ed was in love with a cocktail waitress,
but Ed’s family, and his friends,
didn’t approve. So he broke it off.

 

He married a respectable woman
who played the piano. She played well enough
to have been a professional.

 

Ed’s wife left him ...
Years later, at a family gathering
Ed got drunk and made a fool of himself.

 

He said, “I should have married Doreen.”
“Well,” they said, “why didn’t you?”

Memory

Hayden Carruth

 

 

A woman I used to know well died

A week ago. Not to be mysterious:
She and I were married. I’m told

She fell down dead on a street in
Lower Manhattan, and I suppose

She suffered a stroke or a heart attack.
The last time I saw her was in the spring

Of 1955, meaning forty-four
Years ago, and now when I try

To imagine her death I see in my
Mind a good-looking, twenty-nine-

Year-old woman sprawled on the pavement.
It does no good to go and examine

My own ravaged face in the bathroom
Mirror; I cannot transpose my ravage-

Ment to her. She is fixed in my mind
As she was. Brown hair, brown eyes,

Slender and sexy, coming home
From her job as an editor in a huge

Building in midtown. Forty-four
Years is longer than I thought. My dear,

How could you have let this happen to you?

Lazy

David Lee

 

 

 

 

Laziest man ever was Floyd Scott
it wasn’t nothing that boy
would ever do for anybody
when he’s 5 years old
arredy too late his mama one day
sez Floyd come take this trash out
to the barrel but he just lain there
in the living room on the furniture
so she sez you taking this trash out
like I told you?
he never answered she sed
you want to take this trash out
to the barrel or do you want a whipping?
he sez finally how many licks?
she sed 3 with the flyswatter
he didn’t say nothing for a minute
she thought he’s coming to get it
then he sed do I have to
come out there or will you come
give it to me in here? ...

 

. he was 24 years old when he
went and got in the car to drive
down to the grocery store a block away
to get him a can of beer
had this terrible itch that was a tragedy
he stretched up to scratch his ast
hit the curb and rolled the car
on flat ground right over
Doctor sed he couldn’t find
nothing wrong with the x-ray
but his back wasn’t strong enough
for him to walk on it after that
insurance bought him 4 different wheelchairs
all too hard for him to use
till they got one with a electric motor on it
he sed he was satisfied
never walked a hundred steps in a row after that
some days he sed it was too hard and not worth the effort
to even get out of bed to it
so he got a television set in his bedroom
to help him get by on social security
that same year 4 kinds of welfare
and the Assemblyofgod brought his supper
on all days withaRin them

 

county paid for him a private nurse
because he sed it was a soft spot
in that pavement caused his accident
of their negligence and behavior
he was gone sue the county
and the town for a million dollars
if they didn’t take care of him till he got well
they thought it’d be cheaper to buy him a nurse
for however long it took
after 3 years she found a way to get married to him
and still have the county pay her for being a nurse’s helper
bought them a trailerhouse they put in
right next to his daddy’s house
where he didn’t have to pay no rent
after that she give up her other patients
and kept the county money for watching him
it was enough to get by on they sed

 

she’s almost as lazy as he was
I heard moss grown in her toilets
they put a deep freezer out on the front porch
to hold the TV dinners she fixed
on all days withoutaR
both of them got so fat they had to have 2 couches
in the living room to set and watch TV on
so lazy a dog couldn’t live with them
it’d of starved to death waiting
for one of them to come feed it

Testimonial

Harry Newman, Jr.

 

 

 

You are cordially invited
To attend, at $100 a plate
A testimonial to those
Who have devoted their lives
Unstintingly
Unselfishly
To the humanitarian purpose
Of making money.

 

 

No sacrifice too great
No relationship too dear
To accumulate enough
To afford the luxury

 

Of giving it away
In some worthy cause
Or other.

 

 

Just listen to that applause
From the thousand or more
Gathered here in tribute,
Black tied, bejeweled,
Pledging their allegiance
To the honorees and
To the secret hope
That one such memorable night
They too might step
Into the blue-white shaft
And receive their plaque.

Cathedral Builders

John Ormond

 

 

 

 

They climbed on sketchy ladders towards God,
With winch and pulley hoisted hewn rock into heaven,
Inhabited sky with hammers, defied gravity,
Deified stone, took up God’s house to meet Him,

 

And came down to their suppers and small beer;
Every night slept, lay with their smelly wives,
Quarrelled and cuffed the children, lied,
Spat, sang, were happy or unhappy,

 

And every day took to the ladders again;
Impeded the rights of way of another summer’s
Swallows, grew greyer, shakier, became less inclined
To fix a neighbour’s roof of a fine evening,

 

Saw naves sprout arches, clerestories soar,
Cursed the loud fancy glaziers for their luck,
Somehow escaped the plague, got rheumatism,
Decided it was time to give it up,

 

To leave the spire to others; stood in the crowd
Well back from the vestments at the consecration,
Envied the fat bishop his warm boots,
Cocked up a squint eye and said, “I bloody did that.”

The Village Burglar

Anonymous

 

 

 

Under the spreading gooseberry bush
The village burglar lies;
The burglar is a hairy man
With whiskers round his eyes.

 

He goes to church on Sundays;
He hears the Parson shout;
He puts a penny in the plate
And takes a shilling out

The Scandal

Robert Bly

 

 

 

The day the minister ran off with the choir director
The bindlestiffs felt some gaiety in their arms.
Spike-pitchers threw their bundles higher on the load
And the County Assessor drove with a tiny smile.

 

Actually the minister’s wife felt relieved that
morning,
Though afraid too. She walked out by the slough,
And admired the beaver’s house, partly above
Water, partly beneath. That seemed right.

 

The minister felt dizzy as the two of them drove
For hours: country music and the loose ribbon
Mingled in his mind with the Song of Songs.
They stopped at a small motel near Bismarck.

 

For the threshers, the stubble was still dry,
The oat dust itchy, the big belt needed grease,
The loads pulled up to the machine. This story
happens
Over and over, and it’s a good story.

At Last the Secret Is Out

W. H. Auden

 

 

 

 

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.

 

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

 

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the
kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

Night Light

Kate Barnes

 

 

 

 

Lying in bed in the pitch black, a little breathing
underlies my own;
it is my dog on the floor; we are both alive here.
And I struggle with the old illusion; there is
something else in the room,
a story in the darkness—if I wake up I can
write it down.
It is the light of the purple grape, the deep glowing light
that emanates from my black horse’s flank, the knee-
length, straight,
shiny black hair of the round-faced girl in Sonora
dancing with her groom at the fiesta while all the
aunts sat and smiled;
or it is the telephone pole with Black Beauty stamped
on it, or the thin black dog
named Ink Spot, or the one sleek all-black cow with black
horns—
in the herd of Holsteins always a silhouette; it is the
screaming games
of murder in the dark house, the quick uncertain
kiss in the pantry, the running feet;
they are all here in the darkness with me, they crowd
me with their light.

Sir Patrick Spens

Anonymous

 

 

 

The king sits in Dumferlin town
Drinking the blood-red wine:
Oh where will I get a good sailor
To sail this ship of mine?

 

Up and spake an eldern knight
Sat at the king’s right knee:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea.

 

The king has written a broad letter
And signed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens
Was walking on the strand.

 

To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o‘er the foam,
The king’s daughter to Noroway,
’Tis thou maun bring her home.

 

The first line that Sir Patrick read
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read
A tear blinded his eye.

 

Oh who is this has done this deed,
This ill deed done to me,
To send me out this time of the year
To sail upon the sea?

 

Make haste, make haste, my merry men all;
Our good ship sails the morn.
Oh say not so, my master dear,
For I fear a deadly storm.

 

Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon
With the old moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
That we will come to harm.

 

 

They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the air grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And growly grew the sea.

 

Oh our Scotch nobles were right loth
To wet their cork-heeled shoon,
But long ere all the play were played
Their hats they swam aboon.

 

Oh long, long may their ladies sit
With their fans into their hand
Ere ever they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the land.

 

Oh long, long may the ladies stand
With their gold combs in their hair
Waiting for their own dear lords,
For they’ll see them no more.

 

Half o‘er, half o’er to Aberdour
It’s fifty fathom deep,
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
With the Scotch lords at his feet.