In the Classroom—1958

Listen to Marvin read In the Classroom–1958

I passed the orals well; my chairman viewed
Me warmly, embracing me as a peer;
And let me teach “Great Books” at NYU—
“General Ed” for cold-eyed engineers.

When we got to Melville (my heart’s dark Knight),
To lift them from complexity’s black pit,
I spoke of “The Doubloon” to shape insight
Into doomed men. There Ahab says: “‘tis fit

That man should live in pains and die in pangs.”
For Starbuck, “the sun of Righteousness still
Shines.”  And, jollily, Stubb, like God above,
Wheels through toil and trouble.  And here comes Flask

Who sees, in that gold coin, just sixteen bucks,
Nine hundred sixty cigars, motive great
Enough to hunt demonic Moby Dick.
My scorn for Flask was palpable.  Then fate:

 My brightest scholar, serious, not flip:
“That Flask’s the only sane man on the ship.”

Those students will design: with arcane arts,
Build bridges, create grids, generate pelf,
Nurture ideas, increase the nation’s wealth.
The cost? That ax left buried in my heart.
                                                       (1/6/07)

 In “The Doubloon,” Chapter 99 of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, each of the Pequod’s officers gazes at the gold doubloon that Ahab has nailed to the mast as a reward to the crewman who sights the great white whale.  That whale, for Ahab, is the embodiment of a natural evil that must be confronted.  Starbuck sees in the doubloon, a manifestation of God’s righteousness.  Stubb sees the zodiac around the edge of the coin as a representation of man’s comical journey from one tribulation to another.  Flask sees money.

Posted in Conformity, Wisdom

At the Supermarket

Sometimes, you know, pushing that cart from aisle
To aisle, you spot a woman different
From the rest.  You’re pierced, hopelessly beguiled.
Last year, I saw one near the condiments

Whose quiet eloquence—tall, shapely, fair—
Bespoke an earthbound goddess, lost, it seemed,
Among the cans.  We passed; I didn’t stare.
Yet dazzled, helpless, I admit, I dreamed.

Waiting at the check-out line, without mirth,
She plucked a gaudy tabloid from the rack.
You know the kind: “Pigmy Hippo Gives Birth
To Dolphin Twins!”  She didn’t put it back!

My clear-eyed, high-pitched wail shot through the art
That hid her, and shattered my crystal heart.
                                                          (12/31/06)

Posted in Beauty, Bullshit

At The Gym—II

  [Sometimes a sonnet’s not enough]
      RD

There’s this New York guy at the gym, muscled,
But not like in the old days.  Back then he
Was Mr. Bigshot Iron Bar.  Then tussled
With a Spirit and now believes he sees

 The Truth!  Preaching faith, he joyously quotes
The Psalms incessantly.  I asked him once
How come his lord decreed at Jericho1
The death of all: women, men, young and old,

Of oxen, sheep, and asses for god’s sake!
Undaunted, gleaming with a wicked grin–
“Marv, understand—god rules, and needs to make
A point.  Those pagans all were steeped in sin!”

 I slumped, defeated, let my arm curls go,
And wondered, stacking weights back in the bin:
Just how did cherished pagan infants show
Contempt for god?  What was the donkey’s sin?

 His holy blather—everyday it trawls
The gym.  And yet, he barely can endure
His own dark plague: he hates his wife, can’t cure
That spite. Should leave, but doesn’t have the balls.

She wastes, berates, as did his ancient lord,
And puts his god-drenched­­­­­2 spirit to the sword.
                                                                        (12/27/06)

1 See Joshua, 6:17and 6:21.
2  E.L. Doctorow created this happy juxtaposition.

Posted in Religion

At The Gym

  for T.O.

There’s this girl,
woman really,
at the gym.
She’s a trainer now,
single,
with a 5 year old son.

 “His father’s an asshole,”
she mutters.
Then claps
an open palm
over her mouth,
as if embarrassed.

 Once she said “Fuck!”
Again the palm to mouth,
but in her crinkled eyes
profanity hones
the edges
of her world.

 Her breasts
(as in hard-boiled
detective screeds)
spill over the top
of her black leotard
like whipped cream.­1

They really do.

 And she makes them
bounce a little
(not too much)
and jiggle
when she walks.

And she touches.

You know—fingers
lightly to your arm,
an innocent caress
across your back.
Sometimes
a knuckle to your
upper thigh!

But not lascivious!

A gentle touch
spiced with an easy
radiant smile
that warms us all.

Just once
I saw her weep,
shrunk by
that asshole’s
impudent threat.

Does she dread
indignities
some men impose
on her imagined flesh?
Or does she relish
the delight she spawns
in all the rest of us?
                      (12/26/06)

1 Grateful thanks for S. J. Perelman’s account of Dan Turner, the tough private eye featured in Spicy Detective Magazine

Posted in Beauty

What Goes Around, Comes Around! (The Lamentation of George W. Bush)

We may have nicked the first, but, dammit, won
The second fair and square, if not by much.
I had the capital to spend, and stun
Those hapless, craven bleeding hearts I crushed.

First, we cut the tax that had made us strong,
Enriched the smirking rich. Then told some lies
To settle scores, regardless of the throng
Of nations shocked by good old Texas drive.

I wallowed in weak Europe’s scorn and hate.
Old Nick points out it’s better to be feared
Than loved. To spend a billion more each day
Than we take in—so what? So what the tears?

My wretched plans all wrecked—the world now mocks
A blameless man become a laughingstock!
                                10/28/05

Old Nick, of course, is Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527) whose amoral political counsel earned him his current reputation. The sonnet concludes with a paraphrase of Job 12:4. The worst part of Job’s suffering was not the death of his children, not the loss of his wealth, not the sickness of his body. It was, for this proud sheik, to be a laughingstock!

Posted in Greed, Politics

How The World Ends; Not With A Whimper

Look guys, you cannot have atomic bombs
Forget the WMDs you crave
Trust us, we’ll manage things—you just behave;
We’ll keep the peace—you work your scruffy farms,

Ply your trades, worship your gods, fear no harm.
“One moment, please—we’re sovereign too, not slaves.
We need these bombs; uncertain, hostile waves
Whelm us; only security spawns calm.”

Well then, consider this: eight hundred pound
Gorillas get to choose; we have the means—
We’ll rain down hell! “You thugs can’t blight our tang
Of pride. We’re not afraid, we’ll not be bound!
We’ll make our own hot bombs!” Soon soundless screams
Cry END! Not with a whimper, but a bang.
                        10/27/05

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965), in “The Hollow Men,” impaled a spiritless generation that could not even sin with passion. Their world ends “not with a bang, but a whimper.” Our world, alas, so full of stubborn pride and religious certitude, is likely to have a more calamitous end.

Posted in Politics, War