Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Centennial Ode

27 October 2014

If Dylan Thomas were still alive,
He'd cringe to see my jittery jive.
I do not aim to vex his ghost.
He is the poet I love most.

I love him more than bacon and eggs;
Yes, more than Tina Turner's legs.
I love him like the whiskey neat
That I knock back at Grafton Street.

I love his voice, brazen and sure,
More than the Smiths, more than the Cure.
I crave his rave -- like chocolate cake,
Like chunks of fudge. Make no mistake:

I love him more than pizza pie,
Than Branagh's Hamlet, or ham on rye.
This randy rhymer, roly-poly:
I love him more than ravioli!

My rising moon, my setting sun,
My bardic ocean, he's the one.
I think he's nifty, I think he's fine,
Forever young at thirty-nine.

Right now in a heavenly pub or joint,
He's laughing a laugh and lifting a pint
Or maybe he's thundering sonnets and psalms
To herons and pipers, to Wales in his arms.

Saturday, October 25, 2014


The first year of my post-collegiate life,
resiliency impaired but not dead yet:
the aftermath of being "asked to leave."

Worked as a guard in Brookline. Sought relief
in poetry. Devoured Auden's Complete
that first year of my post-collegiate life.

Boston Book Annex, now gone to its grave.
Judge Thomas. The Gulf War. I'd read and write.
Write about pains no medicine could relieve.

The BU Bookstore, Kenmore: poets' trove!
Ploughshares. Mudfish. Boulevard. Grand Street.
The first year of my post-collegiate life.

Confession (which I'd shunned since '85)
to an Oblate of the Virgin. In defeat,
I turned to the Church that I was rash to leave!

Dame Edith Sitwell's Atlantic Book of
British and American Verse. Scotch, neat.
The first year of my post-collegiate life.

New Seeds of Contemplation. Is God love?
Marsh Chapel Mass, late on a Sunday night.
(Quite late! Close to eleven when I'd leave.)

No more joking with Will or George or Dave.
No more long talks with Leah, heart's delight.
The first year of my post-collegiate life,
the aftermath of being "asked to leave."

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


Tracy Chapman's music was everywhere.
Life at nineteen! Electric with poetry!
I worked at David's Cookies in Harvard Square

with Becca, Melvin, Mark, Jodi, and Claire.
I read Hart Crane's great paeans to the sea.
Tracy Chapman's music was everywhere.

Women, from east and west, both dark and fair,
were much too lovely for the likes of me
working at David's Cookies in Harvard Square.

William J. Barnum, with his long white hair,
carol'd the cockatoo most mellifluously!
Tracy Chapman's music was everywhere.

Of Spencer and Katharine I became aware
through sleepless nights in front of the TV
after ice-cream and cookies in Harvard Square.

Morrissey began his solo career.
I drove Dad's Cadillac quite cautiously.
Tracy Chapman's music was everywhere.

September came. I breathed the warm dry air
of California. Oh, what joy to be
far from David's Cookies and Harvard Square!

Not yet in college, working for a year,
I earned six bucks an hour, gratefully,
and Tracy Chapman's music was everywhere
from Santa Monica to Harvard Square.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014


The year of President Carter's malaise
and of the hostage crisis.

The year of the "Ayatollah Assahollah" t-shirt.

The year I spent at the Joseph H. Barnes Middle School,
waiting to get into Boston Latin.

The year of Mrs Watkins,
my first black teacher in white, unwelcoming East Boston.

The year of Common sense is the knack
of seeing things as they are and doing things
as they ought to be done.

The year of Mr Stein in Social Studies,
teaching us all the nations and capitals of Europe
(not forgetting Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania).

The year that Mom and Dad and I
visited Québec City,
saw the River Hudson, the Chateau Frontenac,
found cobblestoned thoroughfares
with art and restaurants and culture
and Francophonic charm.

The year that Eddie P and I
produced "Commie Comics"
after Mr Stein taught us about the Warsaw Pact.

The year of racial strife at Eastie High
(and not the only year, if truth be told).

The year that hooligans from the high school
capsized Mrs Watkins' car,
turning it onto its roof.

The year I saw Mrs Watkins
in uncontrollable tears.

The year that shot John Lennon dead.

The year of the Salesian Boys Club.
The year of Father Sid, of Masses in the chapel
where Brother Pat would croon "Let It Be"
while strumming a guitar.
The year of Jim and Dave and Wally.

The year of Zenyatta Mondatta
and "Crazy Little Thing Called Love."
The year of dark sarcasm.
The year of Blondie.

The year of Bobby Sands and his hunger strike
for Northern Ireland.

The year I dreamed of kissing
the feet of Mrs Watkins.
The year I turned eleven.

The year of designer jeans.
Sisley, Sasson, Jordache, Calvin Klein.

The year I wore rainbow suspenders
in emulation of Robin Williams' Mork.

The year that disco spent in intensive care.

The year that Mr Benedetto, the music teacher,
taught us the words to "Come Together,"
to "I Got a Name."

The year I finished second in the citywide spelling bee
and burst into sobs at the unexpected loss.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

English 101

Bob Broadcast speaks People Magazine's English;
I bless Washington in a gruff Marine's English.

You're in America now, says Uncle Jumbo,
José, can you see? Amigo, that means English!

Struggling sophomores stumped by thees and thous
Strain their brains over Hamlet (the ghost scene's English).

Dame Helen Mirren converses in thirty dialects,
Especially skilled, of course, at the Queen's English.

We're going to Oklahoma! South Carolina! Michigan!
All the way--yeeeaargh! Oh, Howard Dean's English!

Sweet Mrs Novena, a pious Christian soul,
Deplores the tenor of her flip teen's English.

Drastic blasts of chatter fueled by Maxwell House!
Jittery jolts of wit, my caffeine's English!

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? The Iceman Cometh?
Do you prefer Tennessee's or Eugene's English?

Madmen, drummers, bummers, saints in the city:
In Asbury Park they know Springsteen's English.

Mr Bleeper, an eager network censor,
Scrubs out the smut and thoroughly cleans English.

Life is worth living! proclaims the smiling bishop.
Millions of homes hear Fulton J. Sheen's English!

Brought up among the lyric hills of Eire,
The cantatrice Eithne Ní Bhraonáin keens English.

Diversity changes Cambridge's sights and sounds;
The language demographic still leans English.

Eye-gore prepares the monster's "sedagive":
Nothing Wilder than Young Fronkensteen's English!

"Here, kid, catch"--the Pittsburgh tackle's jersey!
A cool souvenir of Mean Joe Greene's English!

The palindrome of Bolton would be Notlob:
Let's memorize the Python routine's English!

Dexys Midnight Runners sing of a lass
Who toorah-loorahs in a pert colleen's English.

At the Shattuck Hospital in Jamaica Plain,
Patients are pacified by Olanzapine's English.

Thomas, with your accent waiting to happen,
Gaelic and garlic season your baked beans' English.

68th Letter to a Poet

Awake till three, I tried reading Allen Ginsberg but overdosed on his naughty-boy language: baldpate sophomore. I nodded off to TV jaz...