Review: The Cocktail Party by T.S. Eliot

Posted 26 June, 2010 in Book Reviews

I picked up T.S. Eliot’s The Cocktail Party on the side of a city street, one of a stack of books being thrown out by someone with a taste for poetry and Eastern religions, to judge by the other books. I gave it a quick scan and discovered it was a play, so I didn’t shelve it with my other poetry books. It made its way to the basement and I forgot it existed.

Then yesterday, there it was, in the dining room, somehow having made the trip back from the basement and into a place of prominence. I don’t know how this one book was spared in the frenzy of moving and packing and loading and donating, but it was. I read it this evening and was completely captivated by it.

The play is difficult to describe. It’s set in London and begins at a cocktail party. There is almost no physical action in the play. Rather, it’s a series of conversations between a half-dozen or so people, all of whom are having various sorts of existential crises. There is one shift of setting and many surprising connections are made between the various characters.

This can hardly be called a review, can it? Suffice to say the play’s stark rendering of people’s life choices was very moving and appealing to me, particularly at this moment in my life. I think I may try to get some folks together to read this play at some point. And in the meantime, I recommend it to you.

POEM: Long Day In America

Posted 25 June, 2010 in My poems, Poetry

Painting by Michelle Spark

Long Day In America

shimmering cymbal rises off the stage like heat from the pavement
I’m at a table near the band, drowning my sorrows in a glass of water
or at least drowning, anyway

this is one of those days when I wish I drank, something strong and obliterating
that would wash it all away like a sand castle falling to high tide

I come back to reality for a moment while the bass player looks for a chart
a course through the tune so he won’t get lost
I wish it were that easy

these are the times that try men’s souls, then stomp them with boots made of
   money
and unfulfilled potential and disappointment

two tables away a guy is talking loudly, so the band turns up and he talks louder
so the band turns up and he’s shouting, and eventually an old man in a natty suit
leans over from the next table and tells the guy to “please shut the fuck up”

maybe it’s the language, maybe it’s the old man’s audacity, but it works
a hero is born

saves me the trouble of driving my rented U-Haul truck right through the front
   window
smashing the moron to a pulp, smearing the carpet
with his like-new brains

there’s no way to summarize all the things you are on paper
but that doesn’t stop people from trying – my life is a bulleted list
in 12-point Arial or 10-point Times New Roman if I’m feeling professional

I’m bored and terrified, can’t focus
lose the form of the song, even an easy one

my eyes are burning

Breaking Up The Band, or, We Fought The Economy And The Economy Won

Posted 24 June, 2010 in Family

I may regret all this openness later, but for now a little missive here on the blog seems like the easiest way to answer all the questions that are coming up now and will be sure to come up soon. It’s getting more difficult to come up with plausible stories about what’s happening, so let’s try the truth.

Tomorrow, Jen and Bernie and John (my wife and sons) are moving to State College, PA, to live with Jen’s mom. In a couple weeks, I’m moving into a one-bedroom basement apartment in Albany – even more downtown than I live now. We’re not sure how long the new arrangement will last.

Why is this happening? Primarily because we can’t afford to live together anymore. Jen’s been out of work for 18 months and counting, and I don’t make enough to pay the bills. In fact, my most recent job change was probably the straw that sent to camel to the poor house. I’m thrilled to have my current gig and to work in the world of bicycle advocacy, but it pays what non-profits often pay. We gambled that one of Jen’s many high-scoring civil-service tests would pull our fat out of the fire, but New York State has no budget and isn’t doing much hiring these days, so that gamble didn’t pay off. We lived on fumes (and with the help of our families) for a long time, but the tank is now empty.

This is a very dark time for the rebellion, and there’s no way to sugarcoat that. Our hope, though, is that something will turn up and allow us to get Jen and the boys back in time for school in the fall.

So now you know the rest of the story. Wish us luck, and keep us in your thoughts, along with the thousands and thousands of American families who are going through exactly the same thing.

POEM: dead pigeon

Posted 23 June, 2010 in Audio Poems, My poems, Poetry

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Based on a recent New York City experience.

dead pigeon

dead pigeon on a gray sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray dead sedan pigeon

heads turn, shake, pass
passing heads, shaking, turn
shaken heads pass, turning
shaken heads, turning, pass

soft feet slap pavement
soft pavement feet slap
slapping pavement, soft feet
slapping, soft, feet, pavement

head bleeding slow trickle
bleeding head trickle slow
slow bleeding head trickle
trickle bleeding head slow

gray dead sedan pigeon
dead gray pigeon sedan
gray sedan under a dead pigeon
dead pigeon on a gray sedan

POEM: First Night of Summer, 2010

Posted 22 June, 2010 in Albany, Audio Poems, My poems, Poetry

Listen to this poem using the player above.

First Night of Summer, 2010

At the Mobil station on the corner of Quail and New Scotland,
an obese man in a tank top delivers a lawnmower from the trunk
of his NASCAR-stickered beater to a young man in the latest

summer fashions. The obese man plops back into the driver’s seat,
reaches an arm through the open window to haul the door shut,
cranks up the radio, loudly injecting a surprising R&B track

into the first night of summer. Did the Indian or Pakistani or Sri Lankan
cashier in the Mobil station ever imagine himself here?
Did he play soccer or cricket as a child back home, dreaming

of the night when he’d sell Cheetos and Double Chocolate Milanos
to another obese man in dirty shorts, while R&B blared
and nervous SUV drivers stopped on the way to the suburbs?

Did any of us dream of this night? We sat on our mothers’ laps,
had our backs rubbed, dreamed of being paleontologists
or marine biologists or superheroes, not of schlepping to the gas station

to buy crap before the Red Sox game. In case you hadn’t guessed,
I’m the Second Man, one before Welles and not that many pounds off,
selling no wine before my time, plodding past the young and beautiful people

at the bars to get to the late-night sanctuary of those with no place else to go.
How the fuck did this happen? Where did the dumpster in my driveway
come from? Who put all those memories in there?

I want my mother, or at least the possibility she represented.
I want to go home, but I’m already there, and there’s a dumpster
in the driveway, and in a few days the men will come and haul it away.

POEM: Separation

Posted 17 June, 2010 in Audio Poems, My poems, Poetry

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This poem was inspired by a tweet by trombonist Jeff Albert. His message became the first line of the poem.

Separation

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out does
not have clean stereo separation.

It cannot effectively separate the
left from                  the right.

Nor can it color-code cull the allowed from
the illegal.

Or sit at the base of the wall in the cold
desert night, waiting for what the coyotes bring.

The MacBook Pro’s headphone out sends
a steady stream of sound

straight to the bones inside your ears,
causing tiny vibrations that your

brain magnifies then translates into
language you can understand.

And yet, left                  and right
will not be properly separated. Will mix

inappropriately, causing some in the room
to murmur their disapproval.

Are you murmuring your disapproval? Casting
a sidelong glance, perhaps

catching the eye of another partygoer, who
responds with raised brow or a

cluck

of the tongue?

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Can you separate
left                  from right?

Do you know where you bread is buttered?

Do you want to wash the dishes?

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