He continues to write poetry, or that’s what he prefers to write. So, after being away from this space for a few weeks, he’s more intimidated than usual about blathering a prose account of where he’s been literally and figuratively. He chooses to fall back into that comfort zone today with some selected poems from the pile of stuff, manuscripts, not in print (because he’s too lazy (unmotivated?) to send them out to publishers who could possibly turn them into readable print.
Third-person Mark hopes you enjoy one or two of the musings here.
a poem is a secret message meant only for me, all mine, a gift only I can open and consume privately, unless I decide to share it with others when I feel like tipping my hand, confessing “these words are important to me,” revealing what I find to be uncomfortably difficult to explain, let alone express myself face to face. It's hard to articulate how I feel, find the words to carry that weight. a poem written out on a blank sheet of paper helps me focus to fill the white space, communicate what I can't but need to say. poems provide room to explore what isn't there. slowly they speak courageously, allowing me to stand behind them, strong as my mother's legs, and let me bleed tears or rage onto the page as I listen to it breathing, whispering backstage.
This is Joyce country in Connemara Ireland. Once I got there, I recognized it. It was easy to see why my grandparents felt comfortable in Montana, rural Montana. It was like home, where they grew up. I realized those whispering voices I’ve heard all my life originated across the ocean. Our stories, the livin’ of this life, are guided by what we have experienced, our baggage, and the dusty shit that exists in our blood, the unconscious and subconscious drives. We tell the stories we want to tell and listen to what we want to hear. So here you go if you want to hear a bullshit ditty born in my ear from who knows where, read on, my friends.
After a Good Meal Waiting for Jaysus-knows-what, Dublin Blather or another Irish digestif To kick in and unloose the Joycean Wake crawling his bowels, Sam Beckett Decides to chase Yeats into the weeds, Sit under the glittering canopy And sip whiskey Wilde-style while singing Existentially gutty songs of rebellion And confessional escapes, green lines Of poetry rung from the rocky ground Found inside Patrick Kavanagh, the milk Magic of Heaney's Digging. Now toast The host and the cook, our mother herself, Watch Himself unlacing his boots. Leave The sheep to their wool! the Old Man cries, Peeling the worn, sweaty socks off his feet. Flexing his toes, he calls for a pull Off the pint to slake his thirst, lets go an Enthusiastically thunderous burp Cheered in the kitchen, then leaning and lifting One cheek off the chair, the old fella doles Out the lower compliment. A chorus cry Goes up: Hold that match! Blessings from The lord of the manor's ass. Smoke and roars, Drink galore till the night goes black And grate-coals glow—when Evan Boland Is permitted her soothing evening songs Before pouring a last splash and raising The Parting Glass to Yeats and Beckett, St. Patrick K, Queen Mabb, and Finnegan's Bloomin' parade, A-men! and Fuckin-A- Women, lads! Michael Collins! The I-R-A!
“A good meal,” and “a lovely day,” the expressions of the Irish makes me think about another poet and friend from Butte, Ed Lahey, who left us back in 2011. He was a force and a good friend. Ed remains inside me and on the page. One for him.
Friendship Ed Lahey was the king of Montana poetry for me, and I really wanted to meet him. So, reluctantly, I made the effort to go introduce myself, intrude upon his privacy. He lived desperately alone. Ed invited me in under the guise of literary kinship, but it was obvious to me he was glad to have some company. I found him to be open and as vain as me, blessed or cursed with the gift of the gab, and I was fascinated by his stories—the booze and Irish heritage, those tales of revolution, drugs, mental hospitals, and loss— breakdowns I felt connected to. The images in his verses, the voices, his hard words—some sort of working class elegance was starkly laid bare, and his deeply resonant baritone invoked the stony mythology of Butte, its immigrant stiffs and worn- down women, their dirty urchins running wild in gangs while the clank and rattle of the industrial age siphoned all from the inside out. The survivors, those tough huddled masses yearning to dance and sing after each shift after shift after shift of drill, blast, muck, and drink, religiously believed Lady Liberty—the inalienable right to breathe free. Ed Lahey embodied that for me, and I recognized my father inside him, shouldn't have been surprised they were born on the same day in Butte, twenty years apart, two Cancers I'll take to the grave. Ed and I began visiting regularly at his apartment usually over beer or coffee. I know he looked forward to those dates, the companionship, something to do outside his head. He told me so. Ed was honest with me, but some days his mind wouldn't play with his heart. We tried to do what friends do, stay true to it, the relationship, that Tuesdays with Morrie story, and we did, up until the end. Those last few years in the nursing home were no fun for anyone as many of you know from your own time spent signing in on death row. Still, showing up is an honorably conflicted love that rarely gets romanticized. We know the poems, like us, will eventually disappear, dissolve to dust. The value we place on fame or acclaim, our desire to be read and respected for our tales of sense and sensibility, won't survive (most likely much longer than us) embossed with our names on some post- digital shelf. This life, this waking awareness we are, knows only itself, so we get to decide what matters to us. Today I think not of words, poems or books, those paper trails we leave behind. What's been the best for me are the ephemeral moments, the laughter and silence, conversations and contemplations, our devotion to being here whenever we can, watching the sunset glow and fade, our shadows absorbing dark.
No rhyme sometimes and the reason is up to you: poetry. This was my original idea for this space: a place to sling poems. One more short-lined & long-winded outing for today, another two-bits worth of word-play trying to make a connection with another reader.
Slainte! Cheers! Whatever makes your day. Thanks for your support, and if that means just reading, that’s okay. We do what we can do. Guilt is poison, it's a shitty thing to do to yourself. I will do what I do until I don’t. The idea for this Substack thing (if one wants to monetize it) is to work at expanding and promoting it. More subscribes means more income opportunities, the numbers game. I’m not that guy. As Walter Brennen used to say as Will Sonnett: no brag, just fact. Money becomes a burden when it becomes a burden. Simple as that, so don’t sweat it! And a huge thank you to those of you who feel you have the means to support this priceless drivel! I’m a small-town guy who likes knowing folks. At the risk of violating my position on giving advice, here’s the final poem today, a tongue-in-cheek directive full of contradictions! Walt and I contain multitudes! Peace. Live and let live. Be kind. Help others. And always resist bullies. My advice? Love and fight. Go . . .
ask a poet come join me i'm one smart motherfucker a poser extraordinaire i ask you to dance with me follow my lead see where this bullshit goes what mask what costume i want you to wear because if you are still here this is more about you than me so if i throw up or throw out particle theory or paul bowles maybe paul robeson take you on some intricate explication of the syntactical deconstruction of paradise lost you will stumble along with me stepping on my toes cussing and starting over but your ego won't let go of this awkward test i have put you to the mirror the game of i know i am a man-wo-man who knows a thing or three hundred thousand plus things all intellectuals should know or appear to know because really it's all in the pose and i suppose this shit is the bukowskian trip that piss and moan working class bitchy mad edge of it but that it this is is all there is to it the rest is all distraction the immersion in the role of the pose sucking the marrow out of the bone the show ignoring the bloodshot eyes waiting quietly in the dark you may enjoy pretending the journey beyond the field or phrase speaks in tongues only you and a few understand me i'm stuck with words sentences trying to see if you see it anything like me just to know you were here with me and the two of us kind-of agreed we saw we felt and held each other as a log buoys up drowning rats in a runoff clinging to the simple idea we don't know shit about it we're just floating fast and damn glad we aren't alone
