Nature and Nature
We'll fret, my love. That's what we do.
The sun will rise. The birds will gather,
Singing. Final flowers will appear on
Plants around the yard, and leaves will
Take on wild colors. All the world that
Is ours, the chilly air, the dry, unyielding
Ground, and all of the above, are here.
They're real and splendid things, but we
Will dwell on what we've read and lists
Of tasks we've yet to do, and fear a future
We've imagined will be worse than what
We know, and fret. That's what we do.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Awakened From A Dream
We have stumbled a while, five long years,
Tripped up by large and small defeats.
You lost your job, and I lost mine.
Our new ones pay us less, but everything,
And everyone, we owe is getting more.
The math is bad. We're living now from
Hand to mouth. Those sunny visions
We once had, of idle final years among
The mountains, and of trips abroad,
Have clouded. With our savings gone,
The years ahead won't be so idle. We'll
Be tethered to this home, which crumbles,
Ceiling pieces falling to the floor for us
To stumble on.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Thirty Years of Marriage Compressed into 13 Lines
We were steadfast at this railing years ago.
A hurricane was hurling mist-capped waves
Against the wall below, but we'd been lovers
Just a week and harbored storms of equal
Strength within us, so we held our ground
And pressed our salty lips together like
A couple painted on the cover of a trashy
Book. Now, there's calm without, within.
She stares a moment at the ocean, puts
Her hand upon my shoulder, turns, and
Sighs through dry and wrinkled lips,
"This place seems so depressing. Why'd
We come here? May we go? "
poem by Lawrence Beck
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What Bacteria Say to Each Other
I would rather not talk about forms of existence.
I am, I've heard, and, so, are you, but only because
Someone, me, has told himself we do. The murk
And motion hereabouts, the pointless circulation
Of the endlessly divisible components of the
Stuff that gathers into clots in empty space,
Is something, if we will it so, but, otherwise,
It's simply process. We, as eddies, are, when
Seen, but, elsewhere, on a slide or in a forest
In a place a dozen magnitudes more grand
Than this, we pass unnoticed, and, because
We do, we don't exist.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Throw a Punch at Me, If You Must
These hours seem to dilate into geologic ages
As I sit among some relatives, who struggle
To determine which of them has suffered most.
A north wind claws the land outside. I cannot
Find the courage to excuse myself and take a
Walk. My carpet's not so dirty as it often is,
Which means that, when I hang my head,
As I do often, there is naught for me to see.
You can do your dishes later. Hasten over.
Rescue me. Come in and say I stole some
Money. Tell them that I killed your dog.
Create the sort of cataclysm that would
Bring a brighter age. I'm begging, darling.
Please.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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How to be a Good American
This snarling mass of cars go past at
Breakneck speed, each one containing
But a single harried drone, who dreams
Of home and rest, but knows that leaving
Work for suburb only means a different
Set of tasks. A brace of children wait
To go to soccer games and tap-dance
Classes. Just as well; the adage holds,
Some half-millennium away from when
Those English zealots came: in idleness,
Evil awaits, so work, so never pause for
Thought. In cash and phony Tudor
Houses is one's worth. One needn't
Read. One needn't understand a thing.
The point is to be moving always in a
Snarling mass.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Brunch in Tampa
Let's let the waiters have their say. Let's let
The ones who took the bus to set the silver
As you drove, who crossed the desert
Overnight, describe their versions of
Privation as you stuff your bloated face.
Let's let them ask how much you need.
Your hair is perfect, and your teeth.
Your house is large. You make a lot
Of money from your leather chair,
But you complain they're not enough.
You want for nothing, but for this:
Some proof that you and yours are
Grand, and all these others, unlike
You, are wretched, and always will be.
You cast about for confirmation.
Let the waiters say.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Custers
They're three-deep at the counter
Of the outdoor store, these puffy
Men in cammo caps and matching
Jackets, lusting after murder guns.
A nigger's in the White House now,
And women running corporations,
Queers and Arabs everywhere.
It's clear that Armagedden's near.
To keep the rapists from their wives,
The gangsters from their sons and
Daughters, they will need these
Deadly tools. They know what they'll
Hide behind in their back yards when
They're attacked, and three-deep,
They assure each other that the flashes
From their barrels will be light enough
To keep at bay the coming dark.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Don't Ask Me to Blubber About 9/11
We're the kind of people who would kill 100,000 Japs
(Hey; come on; they're only Japs) to find out if a weapon
Works. We're the kind of people who would kill
A million Filipinos so we'd have some colonies,
And we're the kind of people who would help
The Guatemalans to exterminate the Mayans so
Bananas wouldn't rise in price, and we're the kind
Of people who would lay waste to an Arab nation
Because we were angry that a group (of very clever)
Guys, who weren't from there, brought down some
Buildings here. I have to tell you this: in view of all
That we have done, I'm okay with those guys.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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If I Get Some Rest
I would regale you with verbal gymnastics,
With lines so fine as to incline old Manley
Hopkins from the grave to rise and whistle,
Bones a-clatter, calling out to half-aghast
Poetic esthetes that he's met his match at
Last, and likes the thought. An atheist has
Found the beat, and, though his Lord is
Out of sorts, the rascal writes, and, doing
So, disports as if he treads the boards of
Heaven's stage and has the angels doing
Cha-chas, drinking rum, and hearing
Satan's siren song, and saying, sotto voce,
That there is more fun in hell than there,
But I am tired, out of tricks. I don't know
What to say.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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