In one of those dives on Massachusetts Avenue
I put my Auden down, next to my cold beer,
as one of those crackpots, old, disheveled,
“ha ha! poetry doesn’t belong here!”
has come to annoy me, unknown genius,
different from everybody else, but this old guy
believes he’s the same: “I know books, too!”
I recall when I got drunk to ease my fears
reading my poems aloud in a bar. I had vowed
to never join the carnival poetry crowd—
semi-learned, disrespectful, loud,
hating myself for being one of them,
a vocalist in front of a poetry bar microphone.
I preferred silent performances
of T.S. Eliot in my head.
All the poets I loved were beautiful and dead.
I said to myself, with great conviction:
I will never be a poet because I’m an outcast—
like these slam poet freaks—
I’m an outcast because I’m a poet.
The fragrant muse is the one who speaks.
In my snobbery, that distinction was all.
So here I am, in a normal, every day, bar,
with a beer and Auden, trying to relax,
just happy not to be wearing a mask,
and if I meet one who is beautiful, fine.
(Did you know that’s everyone’s secret wish?)
Now this old fart approaches me,
the only one, apparently,
who noticed I was reading poetry.
“Leave me alone,” I think, but he’s got something to say.
I shrug; maybe he’ll tell me something new.
I’m not completely stupid. Textbooks can’t teach you everything
and scholars are often cowardly and hollow.
So I let him launch into his lecture. “The Russians
today are like Germany in the 1920s.”
What the hell is this guy talking about? History
lesson? “Germans, one hundred years ago,
were living in places that were not Germany.
Russians in 2022 are living in places
that don’t belong to Russia!” Our faces
are too close. I want to drink my beer
and go home. Hanging out here
is a mistake. “World War Three!”
he yells, triumphantly.
He thinks I’m bookish, therefore
he can talk to me about war?
I don’t care about the world. Today I only care
about Auden and what he thinks of it.
One must learn slowly. This guy doesn’t get that.
He has a friend from Belarus. Good for him.
Does he speak Russian? No. I grip my beer.
“Putin isn’t Hitler,” I say, hoping this will end
our conversation. I can’t believe I’m talking
about Hitler with a stranger in a bar.
“Not yet, he isn’t! But look, it’s the same situation!
The racist monster Putin is coming after you!”
Does he have an accent? It’s hard to tell.
He’s boring me. Europe is mad. It can go to hell.
“You think you can escape,” he snarls, “with your book.
Not even in this goddamn bar…” I try to calm him down
with optimism. World War Three? World War Three isn’t coming
but this enrages him. I’m defending Hitler, in his view.
Who is this guy? The Ancient Mariner?
Suddenly I remember you.
I tell the guy I’ve got to go.
I smile at him. Everyone is stupid.
War? What does anyone know? Outside the window…
in fog and smog and the lights of dusk…I see Cupid.
Leaving the bar, I recall what Seneca said.
Almost every fear we have is in our head.