"The Island of Lost Poets"

Yet another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"A good book, some nice music on the radio, a cold can of beer, and a Husky Boy cigarette – what more has life to offer?" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of The Alleyways of My Mind: Sundry Essays

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You okay?" said Stoney. "Yes, I think so," said Milford. "You're not going to fall over?" "I hope not." It was so strange, talking to one's alter ego like this, but the strange had now become normal for Milford. He took a deep breath. "You ready?" asked Stoney. "Yes," said Milford.  "Don't forget your cigarettes. And your lighter." "Oh, right, thanks." Milford picked up the pack of Husky Boys and his lighter from the bar top, put them in his peacoat pocket. "Good," said Stoney. "Now let's go." Milford glanced over at the dance floor. Mr. Whitman and Miss Alcott were still dancing, vigorously. "Don't worry about them," said his alter ego. "They're having a good time." Milford wished he could have a good time. "Well, keep wishing," said Stoney. "Maybe it'll happen someday." "You heard what I thought," said Milford. "Of course I heard it. I am you, remember?" "Oh, yes," said Milford. "The better part of you." "Yes, I can see that." "Unfortunately not the dominant part." "Yes, I am aware of that also." "Why are you still standing here?" "No reason. Or, rather, a host of reasons, too many to go into in less than four hundred pages of densely printed text." "That was funny," said Stoney. "Now move it." "I still feel bad about just leaving like this, without a word to Miss Alcott." "Oh, my God. Look," said Stoney. "wait here. I'll go over and speak to her." "You will?" "No problem. Stay right here, don't talk to anybody, and I'll be back in one minute, maybe two." Stoney ambled confidently over to the dance floor, as the singer of the minstrel band sang. I'm gonna jump up on that railroad train gonna sleep in that freight car again gonna go to Californy and jump in the ocean gonna drown my troubles and my pain… "Hello there," said a man with great bushy sideburns who was sitting to the right of the stool Milford had just gotten up from. "Oh, hi," said Milford. "My name's Longfellow. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow? Maybe you've heard of me." "Uh, yeah, sure," said Milford. "You don't seem so sure." "No, I'm sure." "Then who am I?" "A famous poet?" "Correct. Can you name one of my poems?" "Uh, 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere'?" "Close. The actual title was simply 'Paul Revere's Ride'." "Sorry." "I saw you talking with Whitman and Alcott." "Yes." "May I know your name?" "Only if you won't make fun of it." "I promise not to." "Marion Milford." "Marion?" "Yes. You can blame my mother for that." "You poor lad. I'm guessing you're a poet too." "Yes, but I'm a bad one." "Admirable modesty. May I buy you a libation?" "No thanks, I was just going." "A pity. We see so very few living poets in here. May I give you some advice?" "Sure." "Enjoy your life while you're alive. It doesn't last." "Thank you." "No, thank you for knowing who I am, and for knowing at least the title, sort of, of one of my poems." "You're welcome." "Makes me think that my time in the land of the living was not entirely misspent. May I shake your hand, young sir?" The sideburned man offered his hand and Milford took it. The hand was dry and seemed almost insubstantial, like papier mâché. Milford shook it gently, so as not to crush it, and the man looked at him with eyes like distant clouds at sunset. He turned away and picked up his drink, which seemed to be red wine of some sort. Stoney was back. "I told you not to talk to anybody," he said, in a stage whisper. "I'm sorry," said Milford. "It couldn't be helped. He introduced himself to me." "Whatever. Look, I spoke with Miss Alcott, explained to her that you were very tired, and extremely high, and a little drunk, and that you really thought it best that you leave." "What did she say?" "She said she understood." "What did Walt Whitman say?" "He said that when he was a young lad in Brooklyn he would drink and dance until the taverns closed and then go out and take a good long swim in the river. He said you were a lightweight, and he was disappointed in you." "And then what?" "Then they resumed dancing." "Oh." "Listen, Milford. You have to learn, people are not staying up all night worrying about you and your little problems." "Oh." "They have their own worries, okay? Their own concerns." "They don't care." "Yes, I guess you're right." "They're not thinking about you." "Right." "I get it." "They don't give a shit." Milford said nothing. He got it. "Okay," said Stoney, "now let's go." And finally Milford cast his corporeal host away from the bar, in the direction of the exit. He made it to the door without further incident, he opened the door and went out into the corridor, the door closed behind him. He could still hear the music, the singing, and the muffled babbling of voices.  He realized he was alone again. Stoney had gone back to wherever he came from.  He started walking along the dim corridor. He had no idea how to get out of this place, but he figured as long as he kept going he must reach the street again, eventually. He stopped. He wondered if Stoney had really spoken to Miss Alcott and Mr. Whitman. If Stoney were actually he, and he, Milford, had remained at the bar, talking to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, how could Stoney, if he was really he, Milford, simultaneously be talking to Mr. Whitman and Miss Alcott? Could he have been in two places at once? Or was Stoney merely a figment of his unconscious mind? Or was he a figment of Stoney's mind? Milford had no answers to these questions.  He resumed walking down the dim corridor, and after a minute the corridor came to an intersection, crossing another corridor going to the right and left, while the corridor he had been walking along continued straight ahead into shadows.  Milford stopped again, pricking up his small, shell-like ears under his newsboy's cap. Faint sounds emanated from the corridor running to the left. He hesitated for a moment, and then went that way. After two minutes the corridor came to an end, crossed by another corridor going to the right and to the left. The sounds, less faint now, came from the left, and so he went that way, even though the corridor seemed to lead into darkness. He walked into the darkness, and he no longer knew where he was going, or why, but the sounds grew louder, and after a minute he saw a dim light up ahead. He continued to walk and the light grew less dim, until he came to a door with a bare lightbulb stuck in the wall above it. From behind the door came the sound of a gentle song, and on the door was a hand-painted sign. The Island of Lost Poets Fine Food and Drinks We Never Close Welcome Milford knew he probably shouldn't, But, he thought, that's why I should. He turned the doorknob, the door opened, he went inside, and the door closed behind him. It was another dimly-lit barroom, much like all the other barrooms that Milford had known in his young life. Tables and booths, and to the right a long counter with stools. A song played, apparently from a jukebox. The place was filled with people. These must be the lost poets. Milford was lost, he was a poet, albeit a bad poet. He should fit right in here. He went over to the bar.

"The Bold Romancer"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarqfor quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This story brought to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

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Keeping his huge hand on Milford's small shoulder, Mr. Whitman signaled to the bartender with a finger of his other hand, which was also huge.  "Hey, Bret!" he shouted, boomed, declaimed. "When you get time." "Yeah, I see you, Walt," called the bartender, who was shaking a cocktail in a shaker. "When you get time," repeated Walt. "When I get time," yelled the bartender. Mr. Whitman leaned down and whispered in a voice like a hot scotch-redolent sirocco in Milford's ear. "Bret's had a bee in his bonnet about me ever since I told him I thought his western tales had an undeniable homoerotic flavor to them." Milford didn't care, but he didn't say so. Instead he said, if one can be said to say the sound he made, "Um." "This is the problem with writers," said Walt, no longer pretending to whisper, "they're so fucking sensitive. Oh, sorry, Miss Lou." "What?" said Miss Alcott, who had been turned again toward the minstrel band and the dancers. "Just said I'm sorry," said Mr. Whitman. "For what?" "I said a bad word in your presence." "There are no bad words." "Not even the F-word?" "Not even that word," said Miss Alcott. "Interesting," said Mr. Whitman. He finally took his heavy hand off of Milford's shoulder, and Milford felt that side of his torso rising up to the level of the other side, as if a great weight had been lifted from it. Which, he thought, is what had happened. "Now, tell me, dear Lou," said Mr. Whitman, "what are your thoughts on the C-word?" Miss Alcott had turned toward the music and dancing again, and now she swiveled back around on her stool to look at Mr. Whitman, who was bringing his pipe out of the pocket of his workman's brown chore coat. "What did you say?" she said. "I asked you about the C-word," said Mr. Whitman. "What about it?" "Do you mind it being used in your company?" From another pocket he took out a thick leather pouch. "Are you deliberately trying to get on my last nerve, Walt?" "Why, no," said Walt. He opened the pouch with thumb and finger and pinched out a big lump of something that looked like pigeon dung and stuffed it into the bowl of his pipe. "Just curious as to whether there are limits to what words you deem acceptable in mixed company." "I deem no words unacceptable, be they in mixed or unmixed company." "So you're giving me a free hand here." "I'll give you a free back of my hand in about one second," she said. Before a fight could break out, Bret the bartender was there. "What do you want, Walt?" "Ah, my good friend Bret!" boomed Mr. Whitman. He had put his leather pouch away and taken out a box of Blue Tip kitchen matches. "First off, and on my tab, another round of whatever my two friends here are drinking. What've you got there, Murphy, a grog?" "My name's Milford," said Milford, "and I'm drinking a sarsaparilla." "Sarsaparilla." "Yes," said Milford. "And before you say anything, I'm pretty sure I told you before, I am an alcoholic, and so I don't drink alcohol." "But I've seen you drink alcohol. I just saw you drink a grog back in the front bar." "That was a mistake. I was confused, because of those mushrooms I ate, and the marijuana I smoked, not to mention that stuff in your pipe that you made me smoke." "That "stuff' as you call it is, as I believe I told you, a blend of most excellent Kentucky burley and the finest Lebanese hashish, and it doesn't come cheap, and also I don't remember twisting your arm and forcing you to smoke it." "I only smoked it because I was afraid you would beat me up if I didn't." "I was only trying to be friendly." "I'm sure you were," said Milford, although he was sure of no such thing, "but, nevertheless, um –" "Yes?" said Walt. "I've lost my train of thought." "Happens to me all the time." "Walt," said the bartender, "I'm busy. What do you want to drink." "Oh, sorry, Bret," said Mr. Whitman. He lighted up his pipe with a kitchen match. The bartender looked annoyed, but he waited for Mr. Whitman to finish puffing. He exhaled an enormous cloud of thick musky smoke, and then said. "A nice hot grog for me. And whatever 'lady drink' Miss Lou is drinking, and another grog for my young friend Malone here." "He was drinking sarsaparilla," said Bret. "Give him a grog," said Mr. Whitman. "I don't want a grog," said Milford. "Also my name is not Malone." "Two grogs, and a lady drink for Miss Lou," said Mr. Whitman.  "Coming right up," said Bret. Mr. Whitman turned again to Milford. "You don't happen to have any more of those mushrooms on you, do you? The sacred mushrooms of the noble red man?" "No." "I wish I had some of those." "Well, I'm sorry, I don't have any." "Are you still feeling them?" "I think they're wearing off, I hope they are, anyway." "Here, take a toke of this." He offered the pipe to Milford. "No thanks," said Milford. "As you can see I'm smoking a cigarette." Mr. Whitman cast a cold eye on the pack of Husky Boys on the bar, and touched it with a finger. "Those things will kill you, son." "Sooner rather than later, I hope," said Milford. "Spoken like a true poète maudit! But here's the thing about this stuff," said Mr. Whitman, raising up his pipe in an admiring sort of way. "It induces the dreams from which we extract poetry. A few bowls of this mixture, and I can knock out twenty pages of immortal verse as easy as falling off a log. Come on, take a hit, it's not going to kill you." "If I 'take a hit', will you stop pestering me?" "I promise." "Good, give me that pipe." Milford took the pipe and drew deep. What did it matter? At least it wasn't alcohol, and he had to admit, there was something soothing about the smoke, something that seemed to flush away his worries, his fears, his awareness even of his own self. Mr. Whitman, smiling somewhere within his thick brindled beard, took out his box of kitchen matches again, struck one and held the flame to the bowl of the pipe as Milford continued to draw and puff. "There you go, my lad," said the big man, who now seemed even bigger, "suck deep, my friend, deep within your lungs, but try to hold it in longer before exhaling, as long as you can." Milford did as he was enjoined to do. The music played, the dancers danced.  At last Milford drew upon the pipe but nothing but stale air came through the mouthpiece. "It's kicked," said Mr. Whitman, and he took the pipe. "How do you feel?" "Um," said Milford, because that was all he was able to say. "Take a drink of that grog now," said Milford. There was a metal tankard sitting there, steam floating up from the liquid in it. Milford took up the tankard and drank. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice. "Now don't you feel better?" said Stoney, Milford's alter ego, from not so deep inside Milford's brain. The singer of the minstrel band was singing another song now. Through this old world I been a-rambling from east to west from north to south drinking and whoring and gambling and these are the words that escape my mouth. Don't you drink that rotgut whiskey or that gin that's brewed in a tub, just float down the mighty Mississippi, giving your manhood a gentle rub "Oh, I love this song!" cried Miss Alcott, swiveling about on her stool again. She tugged on Milford's arm, just as he was about to raise his tankard for a second gulp. "Milford, you must dance with me!" "Uh," he said. "Come on, daddy-o!" cried Miss Alcott. "Are you going to live your whole life sitting out the great barn dance of life?" "Um, yes?" said Milford. "Never fear," boomed Mr. Whitman. "I shall dance with you, Lou!" He held out his arm, she took it, climbed down from her seat, and off the two of them went to the dance floor. "Okay," said Stoney, who was now standing next to Milford. "You blew that one, big time." "I'm sorry," said Milford. "But I just couldn't." "Hey, ya know what?" said Stoney. "It doesn't matter." He picked up the tankard that Mr. Whitman had left on the bar, raised it up, and took a good long drink. He put the tankard back down and said, "Ahhh. Not bad. Okay. Get up, pal. We're gonna get you out of here." "Really?" said Milford. "Unless you want to stay." Milford looked out at the dance floor. Miss Alcott and Mr. Whitman were dancing vigorously, Miss Alcott twirling around the big man, their raised hands touching fingers to fingers. They were having what appeared to be a good time. "I know," said Stoney, "I know, you were hoping to lose your virginity with her, but, let's face it, pal, I don't think that was going to happen. Not tonight, anyway. Come on." "Should I finish this tankard of grog?" "Well, that all depends. Do you want to feel like total warmed over dogshit all day tomorrow?" "No," said Milford. "Then let's go, now, while you're ahead." "I'd hate for Miss Alcott to think I was being rude." "She'll understand." "You think so?" "She's a trained novelist. Of course she'll understand. Now let's go." Milford climbed off of his stool. He wavered, and swayed, and wobbled, but he did not fall. The singer sang. Oh I'm a bold and brave romancer wandering round through hill and dale. Folks say I'm just a chancer as I walk through snow and rain and hail. Yes, I am a bold romancer and I will sing my song real loud. I am also a hearty dancer and I do the race of man right proud…

“I Wisht I Was a Drop of Rain"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"My newest 'rage' is the Husky Boy patented 'Ladies' Cork Tip' in Marvelous Magenta!" – Hyacinth Wilde, now appearing in Artemis Broadwater's Footsteps in the Gloaming at the Demotic Theatre

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to begin series, click here

Miss Alcott turned again to look in the direction of the minstrel band and the dancing people, Emily Dickinson, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and others Milford didn't recognize, although unless he was very much mistaken, that was Frank Norris and the young Edith Wharton kicking their legs in unison.  Milford wished he could lose himself in the music, in the moment, but he had never been able to escape the prison of his personhood without the aid of alcohol, and he had not consumed nearly enough alcohol tonight to do so. He took another drink of his sarsaparilla. Should he say, "Damn the torpedoes," the torpedoes of discretion, and ask the bartender to add a large jolt of whiskey to his sarsaparilla? No, that way madness lay, no, maybe not madness, but quite possibly passing out in an alleyway in the snow and freezing to death, which might not be a bad thing, but nevertheless Milford was a coward, and even though he had never enjoyed life, he was afraid of dying. He sighed, for the twelve-thousandth and twenty-second time since reluctantly assuming consciousness that morning which seemed like well over a year ago. The singer of the band was now singing another song. Oh I wisht I was a drop of rain falling off the eave I wisht I was the baby Jesus on that very first Christmas eve… Milford was sitting at his desk, looking through the window with its snow-crusted muntins out at the snowflakes falling on the snow-whitened old elm tree and onto MacDougal Street, also covered with snow, and on the snow-covered cars and people going by. On the desk blotter before him was the blank sheet of vellum foolscap, the same yellowed and foxed sheet that he had stared at every morning for the past fifty years, waiting for inspiration to come, for that first word to come. Yes, he had once been young but now he was old. He was almost as old as his mother, who was still alive, as was their faithful maid Maria, who had as usual brought him the Drip-o-lator of hot strong coffee which sat on a stained ceramic trivet to his right. For fifty long years he had sat at this desk, waiting. He picked up his old Montblanc fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and replaced the cap on the barrel of the pen. Fifty years. The Martians had landed, but after a few weeks they had returned to their home planet, bored. The Russians had adopted capitalism, whereas the United States had become a social democracy, with free food, housing, and medical care for all. A thriving colony had been established on the Moon, transporting precious minerals to the earth in enormous rocket ships the size of ocean liners.  War had been declared against the Martians, and fortunately the Federation of Earthling Nations had triumphed, with human casualties amounting to just shy of fifty million. Atomic-powered flying cars were now all the rage, but many people still preferred cars that ran on wheels on the ground. Disease had been eradicated, and people now only died from accidents, murder, and suicide. It had been fifty years since Milford had taken a drink, but he still missed it sometimes. Milford recapped his fountain pen, and lighted up a Husky Boy. It was true, cancer had been eradicated, but cigarettes had still lost none of their charm.  He smoked, and gazed through the window at the falling snow. Suddenly he had an idea. Well, not exactly an idea per se, but a faint glimmering of a possibility of an idea. He picked up his pen again and uncapped it. He took a deep breath, coughed, and, at long last, he put pen to paper… "Marvin, my boy, there you are!" A great hand clapped Milford on the shoulder.  He turned, yanked like a yo-yo from the future back to the present.  It was Walt Whitman.  "Oh, hello, Mister, uh, Whitman," he said. "Walt, my lad, Walt! I thought we had long gotten past the use of Mister!" "Hello, Walt," said Milford. "I was wondering where you'd got to, what mischief you were getting up to, you young rapscallion you! Ah, but I see you are sitting with the lovely Miss Alcott. Hiya, Lou." Miss Alcott had turned also and was looking at Mr. Whitman. "Hi, Walt." "And so you have met my young friend Morgan!" "I thought his name was Milford," said Lou. "Is that what you told her, Muggles?" "Yes," said Milford. "You see, my name actually is Milford." "Are you sure?" said Walt Whitman. For a moment Milford said nothing, as the music played and the singer sang, and all around him people laughed and shouted. "Yes," said Milford, at a point just seconds away from rudeness, "I'm pretty sure my name is Milford." To be honest with himself, he wasn't completely sure, but he was pretty sure, unless this all was a dream, his whole life, and he was someone else. The singer in the band was singing. Oh I wisht I was a flake of snow,  falling from the sky I wisht I was the baby Jesus with a twinkle in his eye "My boy," said Walt Whitman, squeezing Milford's narrow shoulder with his massive hand, "my beamish boy – now, my lad, now the fun begins!" About time, too, thought Milford, but he didn't say that.  The singer was still singing. Oh I wisht I was a shooting star falling from the night I wisht I was the baby Jesus setting the whole world right