Drinks with Dead Poets

by Glyn Maxwell

  Once the farewells had been said and the dusk was coming down they were little more than shadows: Barry with Rowena hoisted on piggyback, their bulky silhouette some kind of gentle quarrelsome giant, the poet on their right, arms akimbo, gazing up at the violet sky and breathing out the constellations, and little McCloud between them, scolding her ballerina.

  And when my hold on all of it slipped again I muttered to their departing shades:

  In the deserts of the heart

  Let the healing fountain start,

  In the prison of his days

  Teach the free man how to praise.

  I heard a scuffling sound: the old poet had halted by the pathway at the far edge of the clearing. He turned and called back steadily though he scarcely could have heard me: ‘I admire Auden, more than I said in the anthology.’

  Then he turned and they were soon gone, the last image to recede the silver hair of the little girl, bobbing along between them on the disappearing path.

  I breathed out for an age. I was alone with everyone, it was much like any night. I lifted the old brass lantern and in three steps was home.

  * * *

  Week Ten – November 28th

  Dear Walt Whitman,

  I find myself alone. I

  Dear Mr Walt Whitman

  I seem to find myself all alone. This was a day on which I hoped to meet you for the first time, and now that this is most unlikely to happen; I feel I ought to exp

  Dear Walt,

  My name is Glyn Maxwell, a poet of the Old World. I sit alone in a small deserted chamber off a dusty old village hall where I have recently been giving classes in the craft of poetry, and ran think of no better use of my time than-

  I scrunched that one up too and threw it at the bin and scored. I’m leaving.

  There’s no class left, no Whitman visiting, no reading in the village hall, no Q and A, no pub, I’m going to drink myself pink at Café Maureen, going to climb the hill not turning round, going to walk right up to that tunnel entrance and this time I’ll keep on going, till the white light’s an approaching train or the white light’s the other side. I guess they’re the same thing if you’re keen on metaphor. I’m not really, not these days, so I see two outcomes only.

  One: it all goes dark, and this was a dream, or a coma, or the grandest mal there ever was, and I’m safely returned to Angel and I see my daughter again, my kith and kin, old friends and new, my Atlantic amigo, my play-reading gang, and I tell them what happened – I met famous poets who are dead now! we all went to the pub! I briefly had a girlfriend! – and they look at me kindly over pasta and pinot grigio, for nothing I’m saying is a radical departure from how I’ve always sounded.

  Two: I find myself back here, because whatever it is that put me here won’t let me go till the term is taught. But Two doesn’t make any sense! It wasn’t me who cancelled class, wasn’t me who ordered my students to quit, wasn’t me who called the agent and said Mr Walter Whiteman needn’t come here thank you. I would have stuck it out to the very end of my gilded Reading Series. Week Twelve is the Christmas party, I’m told, I’d have met Lord flaming Byron, who wouldn’t hang on in there?

  *

  My Honoured Friend, a poet of the Old World greets a Poet of the New!

  When the dawn broke and I awoke in my attic digs today, I had every expectation of meeting you this evening, and of hearing you read your wonderful

  *

  That one hits the floor too and here I sit, the very visual cliche of a writer at work, scrunched-up sheets around my ankles, in the bin, beyond the bin, short of the bin, all’s silent, all’s over for this particular Old World Man of Letters.

  How did I get here?

  *

  I was rowed, obviously, rowed home from the wooded island but I have no recollection, the spray on my cheeks? no that was the outward voyage. Again there were traces in my mind of that candy-apple swirl of a week before, the one I must have passed with Tina, but I couldn’t work out where they fitted on my calendar. In my dozing she was hard at work at the desk, trying to figure it out with coloured pens and her little book-light. You’ve forgotten the afternoons, she said, typical Maxwell. . .

  I woke up this Thursday morning like I do each Thursday morning. There were books open on the desk, Leaves of Grass, Drum-Taps, Specimen Days, it was white and windy and cloudy outside, and I suddenly had a good idea.

  And, as often happens, that one good idea, which would make the whole class make sense today, gladdened and fixed me so utterly that I slid back into bed and dozed and dreamed, and dozed until the sacred question reared up What is the POINT of you, asshole? and in two shakes I was back at the desk.

  *

  I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,

  And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest,

  And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,

  And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

  And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,

  And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,

  And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer’s girl

  boiling her iron kettle and baking shortcake. . .

  *

  I have been reading your magnificent poetry, sir. My life in art comes a long time after your life in art, and there’s so much to tell you that I don’t know where to begin, so instead I will- count the ways in which your example has illuminated my journey:

  However, the chances of my finishing this letter without crossing it all out are pretty remote – it’s about the twentieth I’ve begun – and the chances of my placing it in the hands of one who can place it in yours are so remote as to be beyond all compass. Having said that

  *

  Back in the cold white morning of Thursday the 28th, when I was going to teach my class – I tried to teach my class – and I was going to meet Walt Whitman – I will not be meeting Whitman – I worked at my desk a while, had a further two-and-a-half ideas of what to try in class, swung by the bathroom, flossed and gargled, messed up my hair, shocked my unshockable mirror-self, went out.

  You’ve forgotten the afternoons, Maxwell.

  Go on then, You: fill them in for me.

  I sat alone in the Saddlers, head down and unavailable, and the only soul deemed welcome was Nathan Perlman to take my order. You’ve lost your shades, Nathan, you’re all smart.

  ‘I’m dressed for the occasion, look.’

  What occasion.

  ‘You don’t know? You been here too long, man!’

  No shit. Did you hear Yeats read last week.

  ‘He was awesome.’

  I was ill last week, what poems did he read.

  ‘You know, foul rag-and-bone shop, that one.’

  The Circus Animals’ Desertion.

  ‘Cool, and the one about the swan, and that tower of his and what was it, – do ya dance Minnaloushe?’

  Don’t know that one.

  ‘We asked for the Lake Isle of Innisfree, but he said he’s just come from there. Kinda mystical.’

  Mm-hm.

  ‘Peter says it would have been Whitman today. That sucks.’

  It is Whitman today. He’ll be on the 6.19.

  ‘Truly? Hm. You ought to check that, professor. Let me get you a refill.’

  *

  Vague disquiet encroaching on my gut, I went next to Mrs Gantry’s, who looked up from her stock-taking, wished me good morning and watched me placidly sorting through the toys of the ages.

  The homeward bound and the outward bound,

  The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuyee, the onanist, the female

  that loves unrequited, the money-maker.

  The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those

  waiting to commence,

  The affectionate b
oy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee

  ‘Anything take your fancy, professor?’

  Not today, Mrs Gantry.

  ‘We had some zombies in on Monday, they got snapped up pretty sharpish.’

  Shame, don’t have any zombies.

  ‘There’s a robot left.’

  Fuck him. Sorry, Mrs G.

  ‘I’m used to it, professor.’

  What I need is a pack of cards.

  ‘Aisle two in the yellow box. Everything’s in its right place.’

  It was, but I didn’t mean cards, I meant blank cards and I found some. The lady had everything. With an hour to go before the Cross Keys and my one-to-ones – I’d no idea whose turn it was and felt too low to be of any use – I headed up the east road to the Library. No one was there as usual, though a thoughtful soul had left behind one last smudged soaking handout from the Compass Walk last week, which Spiritus Mundi soon had me forlornly leafing to the crumpled amber:

  IN THE WEST it is always autumn, and we hear a lost stream running. All you can see is fading, and your mind is full of memories. It’s afternoon, it’s middle age, it’s knowing all and nothing. It’s love ended, it’s perspective, the fallen leaves, the last light. It’s wry and philosophical, caves in to tearful grins, smiling sorrow. It’s dusk, it’s the wind, both forgiveness and forgetting.

  All we can speak while we dwell in the West are memories of what was, or dreams of it, and the soft crumbling of the difference.

  I had to read it to the end, it would seem a heresy not to, time being Lord and so on, but I drew weird consolation that I was somehow netted in my own contraption. I would leave the damn thing in the Borrowing Hut, but when I opened the door to do so – there’s that bearded portly man in a hat I always see, he’s drawing a little picture.

  Sorry, man, didn’t see you there.

  ‘What is the difference between a hen and a kitchen maid?’ the fellow enquires without looking up. He’s actually drawing a hen, now I see. His brown beard dabs the page as he works.

  I, well, no what is the difference between a hen and a kitchen maid. ‘One is a domestic fowl, the other a foul domestic.’

  Yep, I’ll just – leave this colourful leaflet here. In the, the bin. There. ‘I’m a sad fellow for disliking parties.’

  No you’re not, sir. I don’t like them either.

  ‘There’s no help for it. Goodbye.’

  Goodbye, sir. See you later.

  *

  I tramp a perpetual journey,

  My signs are a rain-proof coat and good shoes and a staff

  cut from the woods,

  No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,

  I have no chair, nor church nor philosophy,

  I lead no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange,

  But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,

  My left hand hooking you round the waist,

  My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents, and the public road.

  *

  I met Samira on her way out of the Cross Keys, clipping up her briefcase.

  Am I late? (I wasn’t)

  ‘It’s pure hell in there.’

  (It was, we stood there at the dark door of the pub and rock was playing loud enough to dement every bunny in the neighbouring fields.)

  Where do you want to go then? Saddlers? Maureen?

  Samira looked away down the lane, west towards the Green and the student halls, ‘I’m afraid I’m double-booked.’

  You are? Okay (off she went) another time (she nodded as she walked).

  Fine. I backed into the pub and turned, it was loud and dark in there. Low-lit, crimson, as if for some club night, yet it was lunchtime on a Thursday. Odd no? Anyway skipping Samira meant a precious deafening half hour to myself.

  ‘Small or large.’

  SURPRISE ME. ACTUALLY DON’T. WHY’S THE MUSIC SO LOUD?

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  WHAT? WHY’S IT – forget it. Thanks, Norman.

  What was odd was there was no one there. I went with my wine and peered round into the red booths expecting Kornelia or Niall or Molly Dunn, all of whom would sometimes sit there reading, but this time there was no one. It was only when whatever deathless string of soft-rock oldies had subsided in the juke-box, that three young men emerged in mid-trivia from the other bar and hung around the silvery nickelodeon till the same chain of songs began again, again.

  ON A DARK DESERT HIGHHWNY

  This is absolutely dreadful (I cried, lost in the volume)

  They must have heard something from me, they all turned and grinned together as if on cue. None of them was Mike, but I thought I’d seen them with him. The tall one was called Lance, the blonde one I call Blondy, and the one in the parka was called Parker or he fucking well is now.

  Sorry, Mrs Gantry. Sorry Norman. Sorry fairies.

  Evil re-engendered, they went sniggering back to the small bar and I went on waiting, to the tune of Piano Man, Hold The Line, The Final Countdown, In The Air Tonight and I Want To Know What Love Is.

  I tried to remember who I was waiting for. Whom, I whispered from the bottom of the ocean.

  *

  Dear Walt, it is said that you are the father of free verse. But I think you are above all a fermalist, sir! In fact I think you

  If poetry is formed from the body in space and time – which is all I learned on my journey – you are a formal poet too, Mr Whitman; I mean

  *

  It was Niall I was waiting for, but he didn’t come for me. He came to dance, he was suddenly there, he’d stolen in so quietly I missed it, he had wended his way to the dead centre of the saloon bar and simply started dancing.

  Christ.

  You couldn’t call it dancing. It wasn’t dancing to the music. It was dancing despite music. It was making the most of it being too loud to think. They were steady jolting spasms, he meant it all, I sat there, I was too alarmed to stop him.

  IF YOU WANT MY BODY

  AND YOU THINK I M SEXY

  Norman watched him gloomily from the till, hope gone for civilization, and soon the jukebox guys were into it, gathering at the bar-stools, grinning and shouting in each other’s ears.

  When the trio ventured on to the floor and started idiotically doing what Niall did I was quickly in there too, arm around him, saying stop, stop, no more, no more, withdrawing him from view.

  I sat him down in my booth, and went up to the bar. I asked Norman to switch the jukebox off and he said he wasn’t allowed to by the leasing company.

  I turned to the three young men and asked them to quit putting songs on.

  IT’S A PUB NOT A LIBRARY,’ said Parker.

  I TEACH HERE, MAN, EVERYTHURSDAY, RIGHT HERE.

  ‘YOU DON’T,’ said Lance, ‘YOU NEED TO TALK TO THE DEAN.’

  I DON’T HAVE A DEAN.

  ‘YOU NEED TO TALK TO THE DEAN,’ the blond one stated, as if a blond man saying exactly the same was what would do the trick.

  YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A PACK OF CARDS (was all I could come up with. Pig-ignorant of Wonderland they trotted to the bar) ‘IT’S THE DEAN YOU NEED TO TALK TO,’ Parker turned, trying out this ingenious new syntax – only then, as chance would have it, the last of their rock songs faded.

  I looked at the machine, they looked at the machine.

  It stood there guiltily beaming Not my fault guys, obeying orders here.

  I had absolutely no idea how this was going to go.

  I felt that if they put more songs on I was going to pretty well lose it, outnumbered or not, but instead I summoned up that cheek-turning meekness that’s half cowardice half strength.

  Put some Tom Waits on at least.

  They didn’t, but they didn’t put anything else on either, they just huddled and chortled like it was all part of the plan.

  In the red-vinyl booth Niall was dancing where he sat.

  Man, slow down, slow down,

  ‘Can you see me?’

 
Yes, slow down (I actually put my hands on his arms and tried to look him in the eye) are you taking something? have you come off something?

  ‘It won’t find me here,’

  What?

  ‘It’s on the other side of town,’

  What is (I suddenly felt I knew) you mean the white space, you mean the thing that’s eating your lines away,

  ‘All gone, yum yum,’ he said, looking pleased, ‘it’s for the best, it’s for the best that’s yet to come,’ (now a familiar intro came from the jukebox, but I couldn’t place it, the guys were there again in the silver glow, giggling at their deed)

  On A DARK DESERT HIGHWAY

  Lance and Parker and Blondy smugly glancing in red light, it made them seem both brazen and blushing, like it was the most aggressive thing they’d ever done in their dumb lives.

  YOU’RE PIECES OF SHIT (was all this Oxonian could summon) NIALL, NIALL MATE,

  ‘I’VE COMPLETED THE COURSEWORK!’

  GOOD GOOD, SO NOW RELAX, TERM’S ALMOST OVER, ENJOY YOURSELF EH,

  ‘DISTRIBUTED HANDOUTS!’

  THAT’S THE WAY TO GO, MAN,

  ‘THEY’RE SILVER HANDOUTS!’

  WHAT?

  ‘THEY’RE VERY BRIGHT SILVER SO NOBODY CAN READ THEM!’

  NLALL MATE,

  I HEARD THE MISSION DELL

  AND I WAS THINKING TO MYSELF

  THIS COULD BE HEAVEN ON

  Heath Bannen had walked in during this verse. He’d gone to the bar, said something to Norman, heard something back, strode over to the jukebox and yanked the wire right out of the wall. It reared like a snake and expired on the carpet.

  Silence. Then he said what you’d expect him to say to the three young aficionados and they did what he requested of them really pretty sharpish. As he sighed and muttered and led the beaming Niall from the place the only loud sound left was slow handclapping. Then that stopped too: Norman closed his eyes and basked in glorious peace and quiet.