THURSDAY PEOM

Hysteria
by T.S. Elliot

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were
only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I
was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary
recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her
throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An
elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly
spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman
wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden ..." I
decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
careful subtlety to this end.

Thursday Poem

Lines For The Fortune Cookies
By Frank O’Hara

I think you’re wonderful and so does everyone else.

Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you–even bigger.

You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.

You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.

You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.

In the beginning there was YOU–there will always be YOU, I guess.

You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.

Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.

Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.

Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.

Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.

You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you’re legendary!

Your walk has a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.

You will eat cake.

Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?

You think your life is like Pirandello, but it’s really like O’Neill.

A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.

That’s not a run in your stocking, it’s a hand on your leg.

I realize you’ve lived in France, but that doesn’t mean you know EVERYTHING!

You should wear white more often–it becomes you.

The next person to speak to you will have a very intriguing proposal to make.

A lot of people in this room wish they were you.

Have you been to Mike Goldberg’s show? Al Leslie’s? Lee Krasner’s?

At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.

Now that the election’s over, what are you going to do with yourself?

You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.

You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?

Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.

You too could be Premier of France, if only … if only…

Thursday Poem

I'm back, two Thursdays in a row! We're actually three hours into Friday, but who cares. This poem was pulled from the January 2009 issue of The Believer magazine. My dog Gus has been a pain the last two nights, whining and barking for hours--sometimes as late as 3 am--and this poem seems apt.

-Billy Gay

He Quickley Told His Life Story
by Michael Earl Craig

A man was out backcountry skiing when he fell
and did something, broke something,
and he couldn't get up.

He lay there in the snow, miles from any road.
His dog was with him and as he lay there, this dog
raced about and snapped at the snow
and hopped over the man once, twice.
The man spoke to the dog but the dog did not recognize him.
Did not, the man sensed, seem to recognize him.

It was cold and getting dark.
The man could not feel his legs.
The dog was there, he barked insanely at a squirrel.
The man called the dog's name, ordered the dog to sit.
The man asked the dog to please come to him.

As darkness fell the man wondered if this was Death.
The dog was gone. The man lay on is back and cursed.
It was night.

Hours passed. The man thought he heard something.
The beam of a flashlight came stabbing at the trees.
It was his wife, she'd come upon him in the snow.
When he saw her he cried out. She knelt beside him
and he quickly recounted for her his life story,

starting with the birthing canal, his first blankets--
then the sun, how it warmed the universe--
jobs he'd loved and hated--his golf clubs--his marriage--
a couple cars he owned.
He blinked his eyes. He was angry.

The man raved but was alone. There was no one.
His limbs went out like candlewicks and he felt a flame
glowing in his chest. The dog ran like mad through the woods,
snapping at the wind.

Thursday Poem

My favorite blog of all time (Photographer Alec Soth's Blog) stopped being updated years ago, but I often return to its archives to bask in the awesomeness it once was. One of the best recurring posts was his Friday Poem. I'm terribly unfamiliar with poetry and am quite positive I can't tell the difference between good and bad poetry, but I do respect the art and hope to become slightly more familiar with it. So, since Alec is off raising a family and taking spectacular photographs (click here), I am going to attempt to reintroduce myself into the world of poetry with a weekly "Thursday Poem". We'll start off with a native son of Kansas city, James Tate. Tate was first introduced to me by my friend Chris Nelson (he has a great weekly newsletter aptly entitled This Week In Nelson), and I actually own a few of his collections of poetry. His poems are kind of surreal.

Yeah Buddy!

-Billy Gay Cyrus

The Motorcyclists
by James Tate

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,
did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica
of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.
I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.
Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,
but fireworks any time? There are people
like that, you know. They’re like people who like
orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.
Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.
Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-pong and bobcats,
shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,
the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and
whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first
one at the scene of a bad accident.

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?
I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,
did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine
is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind
of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.
Do you know that I have never understood what they meant
by “grassy knoll.” It sounds so idyllic, a place to go
to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They
should have called it something like “the grudging notch.”
But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?
“It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.”
You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven
I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant
right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first
woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.
Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom
at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me
if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?
I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.