Bye-Bye Modern World

We squeak, like pips. The pincers pinch us.
On one side, our puffy-fingered betters
Haul away what's ours, our wages and our
Pensions and our dignity. They'll capture
All, and, when they're done, we'll see
The hands of time have had a backward
Spin, and we, once yeomen, will be
Serfs, and, on our other side, the
Hollow-eyed and empty-headed ones
Who'd have us turn our backs to
Science and to any other thoughts
Which aren't provided by their God.
Toil! Worship! Starve and die! And,
If you find an idle moment, shed a tear
And squeak in sorrow for the things
We had before the pincers came,
And they were pinched.

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Laura

I'd rather not be captivated here,
Inside a grocery store, awash
In pale, fluorescent light, by
Her. She bears another's name
And knows me, I always have
Feared, only as someone else's
Husband, nice enough, but
Not worth risking comfort,
Reputation, for, though I have
Glanced, at times, and savored,
Seen her in her bathing suit,
Beside the pool, and dreamed
Of leading her somewhere
Unseen, to bed or bushes,
And to ecstasy, my own, at
Least; perhaps not hers.
Now, here she is. She smiles
And speaks, and I can feel
Myself a planet being drawn
To black-hole eyes. I'd rather

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poem by Lawrence Beck
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Three Hours Into The Reception

This mass of platinum hair, at navel level,
Bobbing up and down, is very nice for me.
The setting's posh, a tiled bathroom,
Somewhere on the second floor above
The wedding celebration. Still, if I
Was fit to walk, I'd tell your father
That his second wife may not be as
He thought. A beauty and beautician,
Yes, but seemingly reluctant to be
His alone, and you, now having seen
Us here, are apt to find me also suspect.
Will you go, in tears and anger, down
The stairs to Daddy as I do my best
To formulate a plan of action after
Having had my way with her, the
Bride, who's retching now, somewhere
Beneath that mass of platinum hair?

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Morphine

At some point, I know that Ms. Evans will visit.
She'll come on a cloud, in a long, flowing gown,
And she'll beckon to me with her glove-covered
Hand, and she'll whisper, 'Oh, Theodore, how
I have waited to feel you caress me and savor
Your kiss, ' and she won't bring me medicine,
Nor will she take any blood, and this room,
With its hoses and instruments, won't be so
Dismal, so sterile and cold. It will blossom
Into an ornate, royal hall, and I won't be a
Patient. I'll become a prince, who is healthy
And handsome, and pursued by women,
Not one in a uniform, from every realm.
I will treat them politely while saving my
Heart for Ms. Evans. At some point,
She'll come.

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Ordinary

I could make a list, it'd take all day,
To tell you what we're not. We aren't,
And won't be, millionaires, or movie
Stars, or landed gentry, lolling with
Our dogs and horses on our hundred-
Acre lawns. We won't be lords of
Commerce holding court in boardrooms
In the sky. We will not win the public's
Eyes with words or pictures, nor will we,
It seems, obtain the critics' praise, and
We won't build the perfect geegaw,
Torture nature into telling secrets
She had held before, or rule a nation,
Ruthlessly or otherwise, or otherwise
Obtain the slightest status or renown.
In other words, we won't prevail,
As we may once have hoped we would.
At best, we will persist. Is that
Enough?

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Mom

She comes, a wizened, ruined thing,
Who wants no more, no less, than to
Be served and heard. She rattles off
Her trove of tales, each told a hundred
Times before, and, in the telling, tortured
Into fantasies of principle and pluck,
Of proof that, though she cowers,
Home, alone, she is, in fact, someone
Of worth. The world's learned. She
Thinks I should. I squirm in silence,
Knowing, as I have since I was young,
That nothing I have done would mean
A thing to her. She hasn't come for
Conversation. She is here to be adored,
And, as she drones, I dream of saying,
'You once raised me, Mother. Thanks.
I guess you did the best you could,
But, now, I find you awful and I wish
That you were gone.'

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Years Later

Old friend, our efforts at conversation
Falter. Anyway, I should go. Our years
As inseparables decades done, school
Days finished, marriages, jobs and
Simple physical distance having
Produced a division too wide to cross,
We stare at the table and struggle to do
What we once did so easily: laugh and
Talk. I am happy you're healthy and
Solvent and proud of your children.
I'm certain that they are nice, and I'm
Gratified, slightly, by your pleasant
Memories, so like mine, of us as
Noble rebels fighting...what were we
Fighting, these lives, us? We are hollow
And dull as the grown-ups we mocked,
And we aren't really friends; only nodding
Acquaintances. That's very sad, or it would
Have been once. Anyway, I should go.

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Most Likely, I'm Smitten, but Possibly Not

Which is the greater cause of consternation,
Her or them? The former's come again, and
She is, as she was a week ago, a double blow,
A wit, a beauty. How I love to fence with her,
To thrust, 'I worship Paul Cezanne, ' and
Parry, 'Jasper Johns is good, ' and 'Dylan
Thomas is my man, ' but 'William Carlos
Williams is, as you say, also very fine, ' and
She, tonight, in black completely, short
And slinky knitted dress and nylons and
Stiletto heels. I would not run my motorcycle
Through such complicated curves. Or am I
Reeling due to germs? My stomach's tumbled
Since I rose, and I'm not thinking well, I think,
But I can't return home without her. 'Can
You drive me? ' 'Yes, I can, but I must know
Before we leave. You seem to suffer
Consternation. Is it germs or me? '

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Like Dogs

We've been told these things, and we believe them.
We are equals, all of us, and can succeed (whatever
That means) if we dedicate ourselves, and we are
One and rule ourselves through leaders who we
Freely choose and judge, and cast aside when they
Do not reflect our will. In truth, of course, these
Things are false. We are not equals. Some are more
And many less, and, for the lesser, no amount of
Dedication can extract them from the holes into
Which they were thrust at birth, and we are many,
All at odds, and kept that way by those who pay
Both us and those we choose to be our leaders
(Who, like us, are led) , and we're at home with
Hierarchy, fawning over those above us, sneering
At the ones below, though, all the time, we swear
That we believe what we've been told.

poem by Lawrence Beck
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Manifesto

I shall, at last, be driven from this island
Into open sea. I cannot face the poets
Here, the lurid evocations of emotions
Juveniles feel, the muddled mucking
After second-hand synopses of what
Second-raters call profundities, the dire
Clumping of club-footed rhymers, and
What I fear worst: the open-eyed, the
Sadly unsophisticated, gravitation by
These poets, others, too, toward the
Poems' lesser parts, their meanings,
From their greater, how they're written.
How I hope that, once I've crossed
This tossing, empty sea, I'll reach
A land where people understand
That what is said is strictly secondary.
How it's said is all. That is the poetry,
And, in that land, I'll make my home,
A man whose first concern is music,
Meaning being distant second, down

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poem by Lawrence Beck
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