Folks,
Some good news. I’m currently in the home stretch in preparing a new book for publication. The title will be With Our Baggage, and the publisher is Ink Brush Press and Jerry Craven. I’ve put up three poems that I don’t think I’ve read in public or published anywhere else. Hope you enjoy.
for now,
Alan
The Preserver
My office phone rings; some student says
his English teacher gave him my name,
told him I was a real writer. I’m wondering
what new-ex-friend ratted me out. The kid
rambles on, says he needs help; he can’t stop
writing; he says, words keep flowing like blood
from a deep gash; this craziness is ruining
his life, consuming him whole, he’s at 500
pages and running. Jesus, I think, he wants
me to read this thing, but he just keeps talking,
tells me he’s not the literary type, reads
the box scores in the paper, that’s all,
but now this. He’s so scared, he saw
a shrink who asked him about his mother
and gave him pills that put him to sleep.
I ask him what genre he’s working in.
I figure if it’s prose, I can weasel out.
He says he has no idea what I’m talking
about. I say, You know is it a story
or a poem. He says, It’s not like that;
it’s more like a universe. He asks
what he should do. I’m stumped,
but I tell him, Keep writing, this must
be happening for a reason. He thanks me,
but I can sense his desperation as the line
goes dead. I wonder if I did the right thing,
but I think there is a chance that in some new
and slightly askew universe, I am Vishnu,
the Preserver, at least until Shiva shows up
and teaches the kid about second drafts.
Old School
Good Christ, he muttered. Again
this morning, the tricked out
copper Kia was parked
in his accustomed spot.
As he pulled himself and his stuff
out of his battered Volvo,
the students took no notice.
Barely legal and over sexed,
they kept the AC running,
her seat reclined three-
quarters the way down, and he
looming over the stiff gear shift
hovering over her rising heat.
Their mouths open and connected
as they tried to knot their tongues.
The long-tenured English
professor tried not to stare,
so he couldn’t quite make out
where the boy’s hands rested
or did not. He trudged past
their windshield, office
bound, toting his briefcase
stuffed with ungraded papers
on Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress.
His resentment fermented
with each step toward his desk—
a fine and private place.
The Limits of Art
From Babel’s tower rebuilt in ink,
the poet’s forged bird sings.
The reader lured from below
follows the song to where he begins
to know past what he understands.
The page turns. The song wanes.
An airless night falls. Black mates
white to silent blue guitars. Dolphins
swim breathless and deep. The cold
startles the snowman into melting.
In a park walk a young husband and wife.
Thirteen identical blackbirds on the green
graze dumbly like cattle. He carries
the anthology he assigned to students.
The couple talks of numbers. He likes three.
She says she’s too old and prefers two.
They talk of names and welcome the night.
The Summit: For the Sage of Shawnee: Jim Spurr
Rumors of a sage living in Oklahoma
disseminating wisdom like some Okie Yoda
Pez dispenser reached the Gulf Coast of Texas.
In serious need of any wisdom freely given,
I climbed into my Malibu and headed north.
The rumors said this sage held court
in a high place in or around Shawnee,
so I headed to the Arbuckles, climbed
all fourteen hundred feet to the highest peak,
to find an old fellow sitting there in bib overalls
and a John Deere hat. “I suppose you looking
for the Sage of Shawnee? Suppose you heard
he held court at a high place and expected to find
him here. Well, he ain’t me. I just work here shooing
the ill informed away from these dangerous peaks.
The one you seek can be found at this here address.”
I thanked the man for his guidance, fired up
my GPS and arrived at the bottom of an endless
staircase that took me two days to climb. I finally
arrived at the top, beset with doubts. (I mean
if this guy was so freaking smart why didn’t he teach
in a place with an elevator?) I arrived to find a sign
that said Welcome to Knuckles, and sitting alone
at a table next to the bar was this man with Shawnee
emblazoned on his t-shirt. He looked at me
and said, “My name’s Spurr. Take a load off.
I once went to college in this here town. Read a book
by a monk named Rabelais. It was long-ass book
too. I read it in chapel. I never liked chapel much,
but that’s another story. Anyhow, this rebel monk
at the end of his long assed book said the meaning
of life can be found in the clinking of wine glasses,
but he was French you see, so he didn’t quite get it
right. Barkeep!” In front of us appeared two cold mugs
filled with beer. “Cheers mate!” We clinked glasses.
And in that one clear note, I’ll be damned
if I didn’t begin to understand.
Clint Hartung Remembers Working for a Living
All I ever wanted to do was make
a living. It was different back then.
We bought our own cleats and gloves.
We even bought the white socks
that went under the hose. Plumbers
bought their own wrenches, so we
didn’t think much of it. When I moved
down here to Sinton to play semi-pro
ball and work for Plymouth Oil, I didn’t
take a pay cut. Anyway, no one would know
me now if Mueller hadn’t of snapped his ankle
sliding into third. I’m not sure why Leo
sent me into run, but he did, so there
I was taking a lead, and Thompson was up
at bat. He had this hole in his swing,
everyone knew it. He couldn’t hit anything
up and in. I mean I might have drilled dry wells
for Plymouth that were smaller, and Branca
threw this good heater up and in, and Bobby
swings, and don’t tell me about him having
the signs either, because that’s all nonsense,
anyway, he swings and bingo, all of a sudden
it’s blind squirrel and acorn time. The ball
just kept climbing to left, over Pafko, over
the wall, and I was over the moon. I come
down the line skipping and hopping like
some kid in Hondo hearing the circus
is coming to town. National League champs!
And now fifty years later a reporter
for Sports Illustrated wants to come down
here and talk to me, and what can I say
except I was just trying to make a living.
Battle Cry!
“God damn it! I hate this fucking place!”
You could hear him screaming,
the second the elevator door opened.
I’ve heard it said that life whittles
you down to your core. When my father’s
systems shut down, he was bed-bound
stuck in a hospital, then a nursing home.
When I was a kid, he loved going
to Clinton Comet hockey games
on Friday nights. He’d leave
the sheet metal shop’s grime
in puddles next to the bathroom
sink, splash on a healthy dose
of Old Spice and off we’d go.
I don’t know what he enjoyed more
hockey or heckling. Once inside
the Utica War Memorial Auditorium,
my father turned into a creature
with leather lungs and the empathy
of a sociopath. He loved to ride
the officials, “What’s wrong ref, your seeing-
eye dog can’t skate? Then buy a cane!”
Visiting goalies having a bad night caught
it often, “Have you thought about turning
the net around?” Followed by, “There’re fries
at McDonald’s spending less time under red lights!”
He especially saved his wrath for players
who got up slowly after a check and milked
the crowd for sympathy. They all heard
the same bellowed taunt, “Aw did he hurt you
honey?” But after a few beers, somewhere
in period two, he’d start to really loosen up
and let go with his favorite phrase,
free advice he lived by until the end,
“Hey, ya you, if you can’t skate, fight!”
When told to quit smoking
or to slow down his drinking,
he’d smirk and slur, Ah nuts,
everyone’s gotta die of something.
He expected to go like his father,
a grim-reaper-jackpot winner,
who after finishing his lunch
stood to take his dirty dish
to the kitchen sink, halfway
to the tap an artery in his brain
burst, he was dead by the time
the chicken bones hit the floor.
My father drew no such fortune.
First came the brushes with cancer
then the minor strokes that rolled
through his skull until in the end
his semi-conscious and incontinent
husk was stashed in a nursing home
where we were called to gather
bedside to listen to his lungs
rattle and his heart slowly wind
down like the watch that once
broke on his father’s kitchen floor.
My father has always been a large part of my poetry; the reason many folks have been attracted to my work. In the poems he is a literary character who is very sure of himself. I’m not sure that was my father, who tended to be an anxious man, who would reassert himself in the damdest ways. I hope what follows is a eulogy for the actual man and not the character. The two have become married in my mind, and that has been the heavy cost for me for writing so much about him. Here’s my remarks minus the tears and halting voice:
My sister has asked me to say a few words about my father. She also told me to make my remarks church appropriate. As those of you who knew my father know, these parameters cause a certain problem. Because Albert Berecka, a onetime merchant marine, could aptly be described as salty. But beneath the crust and bravado, he was a good husband who enjoyed two marriages that lasted over 20 years each; he was a good father, grandfather and a loyal friend. He was generous with his time and talents, often volunteering at St. George’s church, or helping friends and relatives with repairs and projects. During the summers, farmers would appear at our house to ask him to weld their equipment. He would go to the farms and refuse payment for his labor. He awoke often to find anonymous offerings of produce and libations on his front porch.
His life was guided by many rules. Maxims that Janis and I called the Rules of Albert. Among these dictums were never visit someone again, until your visit is repaid; don’t look for sympathy; go to mass on Sunday; the longer the sermon, the smaller the offering. Albert, don’t worry. This talk will stay in the money.
The most important rule was to be honest. To that end Albert lived a quest to reveal hypocrisy and prick at the pretentious. He often accomplished these tasks by saying the most inappropriate things at the most appropriate times.
He lived this way to the very end. While his health and memory failed in his last days, Janis would remind him daily that I was coming in from Corpus to visit. Each day he’d ask, “Why’s he coming?” Not wanting to say that I was coming to make sure I got a chance to say good bye, she would make up a different excuse each time. One day she said, “Alan’s coming because he misses me.” Albert gave her that look that only Albert could give and said, “I don’t think so!”
As you all know, Albert was not a saint, but was as unique and authentic as they come. And in spite of his flaws, he was a good man, who tried his best. And if we are really honest about it, what better thing can be said of any man.
Folks,
The August issue of the Red River Review was just posted. It contains poems by Ken and me. Since I’m out of pocket for the next couple of weeks, I thought I’d post the link in lieu of a new poem. I hope you enjoy.
For now,
Alan