Poems December 1990
The cabin
A woodpile and a fence,
grass, a hedge, a screen of trees . . .
I wish I had romantic neighbors
to talk about, like the lady
Yeats speaks of. When she was offended
by a farmer, her serving man
ran out with the garden shears
and brought her the farmer’s ears
in a little covered dish.
I have no man to serve me,
but once, offended by the lout
who lives across the street,
I quarreled with him, loudly.
When his wife put her head out
and said, “Louis, I don’t like your language,”
I replied, on the moment’s thought,
“And I don’t like your face.”
We haven't been troubled by them since.
Yeats created Hanrahan,
the mighty lecher. What
lust-driven, legendary man
shall I summon? Where we live
there are no legends, only gossip.
Yet the great matter of Troy
that ended with a whole town burning
began with an inch of skin
between a woman's skirt and stocking.
I give you my friend Roger
who recently left Denise
and is living with Diane
in a motel in Florida.
Watching daytime television . . .
Mosquitoes and tractor trailers
keeping him awake, making his heart race,
like a clashing of shields
and swords, and flights of arrows.
A Message from the Editors
Support our crucial work and join us in strengthening the bonds of civilization.
Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 4, on page 42
Copyright © 2024 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/1990/12/the-cabin