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.”
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