the greatest poem ever written

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

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another rainy afternoon in bob’s bowery bar. the poets table was fully occupied. the rest of the place was not so crowded and the poets’ voices echoed around the walls. the subject turned to “the greatest poem ever written.” howard paul studebaker, the western poet, voted for “the cremation of sam mcgee.” hector phillips stone, the doomed romantic poet, scoffed at this. “‘the cremation of sam mcgee’! why not ‘casey at the bat’!” “why not ‘casey at the bat?” seamas macseamas the irish poet rejoindered. “but my vote goes to ‘the destruction of sennacherib’ by lord byron, or maybe ‘the nameless one’ by my hero james clarence mangan. “how about you, frank? hector asked frank x fagen, the nature poet. “um - ‘the excursion’ by wordsworth“ or - ‘the sensitive plant’, by shelley,” frank answered a little hesitantly. he turned to lucius pierrepont st clair iii, the negro poet. “what say you, lucius?” he asked. “those are all good choices,” lucius agreed diplomatically. “including ‘casey at the bat’. for myself i would choose the first poem i ever read - ‘the rubaiyat of omar khayyam’.” “i vote for ‘our march’ by mayakovsky,” scaramanga the leftist poet said. “stick to poems in english.” seamas told him. “and ones we might have heard of.” ”who ever heard of your poem by james clarence whoosis?” scaramanga shot back. “well, i had a poem by lord byron, too,” seamas said. “now, now, let’s not fight,” lucius interposed. “maybe you could chose something in english, scaramanga? some early poem by carl sandburg, perhaps? or emma goldman - i think she wrote some poems… maybe?” scaramanga thought for a few seconds. “how about that poem by w h auden? you know the one i mean.” “ ‘you better love everybody or else’ ?” frank asked. “that’s the one,” scaramanga agreed. “and you - hector ? we haven’t heard from you, ” said seamas. “it looks like you are last up.” “well, not counting my own poems - “ “no, definitely not counting your own poems.,” seamas agreed. “ - especially the poems i am going to write, perhaps as early as tonight, ” hector continued. “i don’t think there is any question as to the greatest poem ever written. i refer , of course, to ‘hugh selwyn mauberley’ by ezra pound.” suddenly janet the waitress appeared at the table with her tray. “you fellows must be getting a little hoarse from all the noise you are making. care to contribute to keeping the place open, by actually buying some drinks?” the poets began clearing their throats and making a show of looking in their pockets for change. “maybe we could take a vote on our choices for best poet,” suggested seamas. “and whose ever poem wins, the rest chip in and buy him a drink?” “are you kidding? everybody would just vote for their own poem,” said hector. “no, you couldn’t vote for your own poem,” seamas told him. ”that way -“ janet rolled her eyes and started moving away. “well, if you want me, just holler - “ she turned and almost bumped into philip the uptown swell, who had been sitting on the other side of the room at a corner table, just beginning one of his classic benders. “did i hear somebody say poetry?” philip asked, in his drunken but surprisingly clear voice. “i am sure you did,” seamas replied. “poetry is the name of our not very lucrative game.” “and we welcome all patronage,” lucius added hopefully. “i wrote a poem once,” philip said. “all by myself. want to hear it?” “of course,” seamas assured him. “pull up a chair.” “and maybe buy a round of drinks?” hector added. “the waitress happens to be right here.” philip sat down in the chair frank had found for him. “let me see if i can remember it. it was a while ago.” “take your time,” seamas told him. “all right, here goes -“ philip began reciting - the city greets the dawn then morning comes along what can i say then it’s the middle of the day the afternoon goes by then twilight fills the sky evening spreads its wings night covers everything - “ philip paused, then got his second wind and continued. “somehow the world survives midnight finally arrives darkest night takes hold and it gets kind of cold gray seeps into the sky time to rub your eyes dawn comes up again - dawn comes up again - there’s one more line, i can’t remember it - “ “sure you can!” seamas and hector encouraged him. philip put his hand in the air - “throw another bottle in the bin!” the poets all clapped. “that’s great,” seamas told him. “that is definitely the greatest poem ever!” “does that mean all you guys are going to buy me a drink?” philip asked. “i don’t mean all at once. you can buy them one at a time.” next story

"The Second Stone"

Another fable of the forgotten people by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

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"You know what the Bible says?” said Gilbey the Geek. “Hey, Purple, I say you know what the Bible says?” Purple hadn’t turned purple yet, but it was early yet. “I know a lot of what the Bible says,” said Purple. “And, for your information, I prolly know a hell of a lot more about what the goddam Bible says than you’ll ever know.” “Yeah,” said Gilbey, “but you know what in particular the Bible says?” “What, Gilbey? What? Just come out and say it fer Chrissake.” “Let him what is without sin cast the first stone.” “What?” “Let him what is without sin cast –” “Awright, awright, I heardja the first time. So what?” “Let him what is without sin cast the first stone.” “Jesus Christ, Gilbey –” Sure enough, Purple was starting to turn purple now. “But,” said Gilbey the Geek, “what about him what casts the second stone?” “What?” “The first guy what casts a stone, let him what is without sin cast that first stone, okay, I get it, fair enough, but what I am asking is what about him what casts the second stone? Don’t he gotta be without sin? Or not. What I am saying is maybe, just maybe – maybe it’s only that first guy what casts a stone that’s gotta be without sin. But, if somebody already did cast a stone – and this should preferably be somebody who ain’t got no sins on his soul – then it’s like anybody can cast that second stone.” “What?” “I am saying that you’re allowed to throw the second stone even if you do got sins on your soul, but you just ain’t allowed to throw the first stone.” “That is the stupidest goddam thing I ever heard.” “It makes sense, Purple. Ya see, this is why so many people get stoned. Because it only takes some guy to throw that first stone, and then everybody just rushes in fallin’ all over each other to cast that second stone.” Purple didn’t say anything, and oddly enough his color started to fade from deep purple back to its normal bright red. He took a drink of his bock. “Everybody,” said Gilbey. “Everybody can cast that second stone, and everybody will cast it. Except very few. Very few, Purple.” Neither of them said anything for a minute. Purple took another drink from his glass, emptying it. Gilbey just stared at his own empty glass. He was out of dough, which was a shame. He sure would like another bock. Bob came over. “Another one, Purple?” “Yeah,” said Purple. “Give Gilbey one too.” “What?” said Bob. Purple had never bought a drink for anyone in his life. “Give Gilbey a bock too.” “Can I get a imperial pint?” said Gilbey. “No,” said Purple. “Just a glass, just like me. What do I look like, John D. Rockefeller? Just a glass, and be glad you’re gettin’ that much.” Bob took the empty glasses and went over to the taps. “First stone,” said Purple. “Second stone. They both hurt, no matter who throws them.” “And every stone after that,” said Gilbey. “Until you croak,” said Purple. “Until you croak.” “Then you don’t feel nothin’,” said Purple. “Unless you go to Hell,” said Gilbey. “Oh, Christ,” said Purple. “Unless you go to Hell and burn in the everlasting fires of Hell,” said Gilbey. “Hey, do me a favor,” said Purple. “Sure, Purple,” said Gilbey. Bob brought the fresh bocks over and laid them down. Purple slid two dimes forward, and Bob picked them up and went away. “Just drink your bock and be quiet, Gilbey,” said Purple. “You think you can do that?” “Sure, Purple.” Both men picked up their bocks and took a good drink. They set down their glasses, and another minute passed silently into oblivion.  “You know what else the Bible says?” said Gilbey. next story

abercrombie

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

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you should get out more, mr abercrombie, the doctor said wth a smile. out? out where? mr abercrombie replied doubtfully. oh, just walk the streets, look at people - people watch, the expression is. and there are plenty of people in the streets to watch - people named simmons, and rogers, and tombanelli, and chan, and even martinez some of them. i don’t know. i remember one time in kansas city, or maybe it was in st louis or chicago, back when i was just a young fellow, i was standing on a corner woolgathering a bit, and a young woman thought i was staring at her, and she gave me what for, let me tell you. ha ha, yes, there are women like that in every town, named millie or lily or jillian. but if you are dead set on avoiding them, might i suggest finding a friendly neighborhood bar. there is one in every neighborhood, with a friendly bartender named sam or jake or benny that you can tell your troubles to. i don’t know, mr abercrmbie murmurred. trust me on this, said the doctor, whose name is aways dr fisher, or dr morris, or dr simpson. they will be waiting for you. but there is one thing to watch out for, even in the friendliest bar in the friendliest neighborhood. and what might that be? a floozie. a floozie named mabel, or fawn, or cora, or daisy, and she will get her hooks into you and drag you to your doom. but then, an eminently sensible fellow like yourself need have little to fear. i just thought i would mention it, as it does go with the territory. thank you. so you will take my advice? i am not sure. i will think about it. you do that, the doctor smiled again, and mr abercrombie took his leave. when he got down to the street, he considered taking a cab, which would have been driven by a talkative driver named willie or moe or alberto, and walked home to his lonely room. all afternoon, which he had taken off from his job at a bank or an insurance company or a brokerage house, mr abercrombie pondered the doctor’s advice. at dusk, he found himself seated at henry’s horseplayers bar on houston st, the first bar he had come to after cautiously venturing out of his apartment building. it seemed a quiet place. there were no colorful characters in sight. in fact he was the only patron. the bartender approached, he had a big red face, so he was sam. if he had had a walrus mustache he would have been jake, and if he was bald he would have benny. you have been here before, sam said. i guess i have, mr abercronbie agreed. you are mr bradley braithwaite, and you work at big city bank. right? or wait - maybe you are mr curtis chatsworth, a partner in the law firm of chatsworth, downboy, and entwhistle. that is correct, mr abercrombie agreed. and just as it should be. tell me your troubles, sam urged mr braithwaite. i don’t have any troubles, mr chatsworth replied. you do now, said a voice beside him. it was mabel jones, or maybe it was fawn fitzgerald, or daisy walker. she put her suitcase sized purse on the bar, took a pack of herbert tareyton cigarettes out of it, shook one out and put it in her mouth, and waited for mr abercrombie to iight it. next story

"Strange"

Another fable of the underclasses by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

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“I got strange desires,” said Gilbey the Geek. “Why you telling me this?” said the guy they called Purple, on account of when he got mad his face turned from its usual bright red to deep purple. “I don’t know,” said Gilbey, “just to make conversation. Don’t you wanta know what my strange desires are?” “No,” said Purple, and you could tell he was on his way to turning purple, “I don’t want to know what your strange desires are.” “You sure?” “Absolutely.” Gilbey turned to his left, where fat Angie the retired whore was sitting. “Hey, Angie, you know something? I got strange desires.” “Yeah, you and the rest of the bums in the world.” “You want to know what my strange desires are?” “No.” “Not at all?” “Not at all.” “That ain’t very open-minded of you, Angie.” “I’ll open-mind you, Geek. I’ll crack your skull like an egg with this Rheingold beer bottle. How’d you like that?” “So you really don’t want to know what my strange desires are.” “Buzz off.” “All right,” said Gilbey. “You ain’t got to be rude, Angie.” “Tell your story walking,” said Angie. Gilbey picked up his half-drunk glass of bock, now grown warm and flat, and walked over to the poets’ table. The usual crew were all there: Hector Phillips Stone, the doomed (yet somehow still alive) romantic poet; Seamas McSeamas, the professionally hearty Irish poet; Howard Paul Studebaker, the Western poet who had never ventured farther west than the Delaware River; Frank X Fagen, the nature poet who hadn’t departed the island of Manhattan since 1937; Scaramanga the leftist poet, drummed out of the Communist Party for conduct unbecoming of a comrade; and Lucius Pierrepont St. Clair III, the Negro poet who had once been a rising star in the Harlem Renaissance until too much of what he himself termed “excessively militaristic behavior in my cups” had exiled him down to the Bowery. “I got strange desires,” said Gilbey, to the table as a whole. “What?” said Frank X. “Strange desires,” said Gilbey. “You guys mind if I sit with you and tell you about them?” “Yes,” said Hector. “We mind.” “You guys are poets, you should be innerested in stuff like strange desires.” “Beat it, Gilbey,” said Howard. “I’ll be quick,” said Gilbey. “How about you be quick about taking a hike,” said Scaramanga. “I got strange desires,” said Gilbey. “I gotta tell somebody about ‘em.” “Listen, Gilbey,” said Seamas, “none of us wants to hurt your feelings, but go find a hole to dry up in.” “Hey, Lucius,” said Gilbey, “you’re a Negro. You know what it’s like to be oppressed and all. You’ll listen to me, won’t ya?” “No,” said Lucius. “Do I look like a priest? Now scram.” But Lucius had given Gilbey an idea, so he went over to where Father Frank the defrocked whiskey priest sat at the bar. “Hey, Father Frank, I got strange desires. You want to hear ‘em?” “If you want me to hear your confession I charge one shot of Cream of Kentucky bourbon whiskey.” “I ain’t got no money. Can I owe ya?” “No.” “But –” “Hop it, Gilbey. The good lord’s got no time for pikers.” In near despair Gilbey looked around and saw Philip the uptown swell, down here on another one of his benders, sitting alone at one of the little tables near the men’s room. Gilbey went over and sat down across from him. “Hey, Philip, I got strange desires, you want to know what they are?” “Strange desires?” said Philip, after a long pause. “Yeah, strange desires. You want to hear about them?” “Sure,” said Philip. “Fire away.” “It’s like this,” said Gilbey. Suddenly Philip pushed his whiskey glass to one side, crossed his forearms on the table top, laid his head on his arms, and began to snore. Not to be deterred, Gilbey the Geek proceeded to tell the sleeping Philip all about his strange desires. next story

“A Father’s Advice”

Another unflinching fable of the underclasses by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by rhoda penmarq

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One cold grey day in March a young fellow carrying a duffel bag came into Bob’s Bowery Bar, and after looking around in the smoky dimness he came up to the guy everybody called Buffalo Bill, on account of he was so cheap they said he squeezed a nickel so hard he made the Indian ride the buffalo’s back. It was mid-afternoon, not too crowded, and Buffalo Bill was sitting alone at the bar nursing a glass of bock and waiting for some fool to come in and sit next to him and maybe buy him another bock. “Dad?” Bill turned and looked at the kid.  “Jimmy?” “Yeah, it’s me, Dad.” “What’d ya do, bust out?” “No, I turned eighteen, so they had to let me out.” “You’re eighteen?” “Yeah, eighteen today.” “Happy birthday.” “Thanks, Dad.” Buffalo Bill was afraid the kid was going to ask him for money, but, what the hell, he couldn’t just tell him to get lost, could he? “Well, sit down, boyo. You’re eighteen now, old enough to drink like a man.” “Well, I don’t really want a drink, actually, Dad.” “You don’t? Why the hell not? You ain’t a pansy, are ya?” “No, but it’s only two in the afternoon, and I ain’t much of a drinker anyways. I mean, I been in reform school since I was twelve.” “Don’t they make moonshine there, pruno?” “Sure they do, but that homemade stuff don’t taste so good.” “You sure you ain’t a pansy?” “Pretty sure.” “Well, sit down, anyway.” The kid laid down his duffel bag and sat down. Bob came over. “How old are you, kid?” “I just turned eighteen today, sir.” “This is my boy, Bob,” said Bill. “He just got out of Hell Gate reform school today. How about one on the house for him to celebrate his birthday?” “Because you’re too cheap to buy your own son a birthday drink?” “Wow, Bob,” said Buffalo Bill. “I mean, you know, wow.” “You want a drink, kid?” Bob asked the kid. “Could I just have a ginger ale?” said the kid. “Sure,” said Bob. Buffalo Bill looked worried, so Bob said, “Don’t worry, Bill, I’ll let him have a ginger ale on the house for his birthday, and because he just got out of Hell Gate.” “Hey, that’s real nice of you, Bob,” said Buffalo Bill, suppressing a great sigh of relief. Father and son were quiet as Bob went and got a ginger ale, laid it in front of the kid, and then went back to reading his Federal-Democrat at the end of the bar. After a minute the kid said, “So what you been doing, Dad?” “Ah, you know,” said Buffalo Bill, “this and that. I got a few irons in the fire. What about you? Gonna go back to boosting cars?” “Nah, I’d like to not be locked up for a while, if you know what I mean.” “Sure,” said Bill. “I can see that. Nothing wrong with that. So you gonna get a job or something?” “I was thinking of joining the navy.” This time Buffalo Bill couldn’t help himself and he did sigh, with relief. “Hey, that’s great, kid. Join the navy and see the world.” “Yeah, well, I just thought I’d say hi since I just got out of the place.” “I’m glad you did, son, glad you did. You see your mother yet?” “She’s dead, Dad.” “Oh, right, I forgot.” Neither of them said anything for another minute, and then the kid said, “Don’t worry, Dad, I ain’t gonna ask you for nothing, and I can get a room myself till I go in the navy.” “I guess you made some good money making them hubcaps, huh?” “Not so great, Dad, but after six years I got enough to hold me for a month or so maybe.” “That’s great, kid. Really great.” This was turning out to be not so bad for Bill after all.  The kid finished his ginger ale. “Well, I guess I’ll be shoving off now, Dad.” “Great seeing ya, kid. Drop me a postcard from one of them foreign ports once in a while.” “Yeah, sure.” “You can always address it to Bob’s Bowery Bar and I’ll get it.” “Okay.” The kid got off his stool. “One last word of advice,” said Buffalo Bill. “What’s that, Dad?” “Never do nothing you don’t got to do.” “Never do nothing I don’t got to do.” “That’s right. I been doing nothing forty-eight years and you know how many regrets I got?” “None?” “That’s right, Jimmy boy. None. It’s doing stuff that gets you in trouble, every time. Just don’t do nothing unless you really got to do it.” “Okay. I’ll remember that.” “And good luck with the navy, kid. Twenty years, even better thirty years, you can retire with a good pension. You’ll be my age, sitting pretty, all the dough you need. Thirty years.” The kid said nothing, nodded, then picked up his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder and walked out.  It was starting to drizzle. The way he looked at it, he had two choices, find a car and boost it and go for a joy ride, or else just take the A train down to the navy recruiting office on Chambers Street. He decided to make up his mind on the way to the subway, depending on if he saw a likely car with the keys in it. next story