June 2015
I've always loved this quote from "October" by Louise Gluck:
|
...And still, you are fortunate:
The ideal burns in you like a fever. Or not like a fever, like a second heart. |
I love the revision of the third line, which takes the speaker's passion for poetry from a sickness, an overwhelming source of delusions, to the redoubled root of love, a driving force of life. That's how poetry has always been for me, a second heart that burns like a fever —
and yes, because of this passion for poetry, I am fortunate.
and yes, because of this passion for poetry, I am fortunate.
The Dive
Your dollar scratch-off ticket buys a shot,
or doesn’t. No big deal, you’re working—and God,
you’re glad to do it. Clink a stranger’s glass.
Hell, even bill collectors need a break,
so turn your phone off while you’re at the bar,
and let them take it easy. Nothing’s gone
without a hitch, but worse has come and gone
and you’ve made out OK. You’re no big shot,
don’t claim to be, but here, at this small-town bar,
they let you run a tab all week, thank God,
and by this Friday’s check, you ought to break
just even with the bills. You walk on glass,
rent month to month, on edge—a sheet of glass—
but with shit luck and sucker odds, you’ve gone
and got a double on Christmas Day. Banks break,
but clocking sixteen hours, you’ve got a shot—
and with pay and a half? It’s like an act of God.
You’ll catch back up, and swagger to this bar
just like James Dean. They’ll think you own the bar,
the way you order then. Your half-warm glass
sweats on a Bud Light coaster, and loud as God
in a Technicolor movie, a sad-sack gone
with booze starts growling hard, like Cash, “I shot
a man in Reno—.” Three guys rack and break,
shooting cut-throat like it’s make or break,
all circle and pace, all angles. Mostly, the bar
just dozes—but that singer’s eyes, bloodshot
and wiry, pick at the place. He thrusts his glass,
he nails it: “Just to watch him die.” He’s gone,
good and gone—and you think, If I were God,
man, fucked if I’d do shit, a deadbeat god.
Screw saints—and screw these assholes, too. Heartbreak,
like a watery sick, like a swerving—then it’s gone,
sunk in your guts somewhere. But it’s eight, so the bar
lights dim, the doorman puts out ashtrays, glass
still leaded with Marlboro ash—and it’s light’s last shot,
its intent, unbroken glare, the windows, their glass
shot blazing white, the smudge and grime all gone—.
Your goddamn bar. It’s almost something it’s not.
©2015 Anna Ashley McHugh