The
instant the chair creaked under her on the stage, it occurred to Augusta
that she might have erred in bypassing an earlier opportunity in the corridor
to give copies of Solitude and Chatterings to her hosts. She had
just learned that she was scheduled to be the final speaker; she vibrated
with misgivings about having delayed for a more auspicious moment. Already
the anticipated tedium of Max Burden's performance irritated her. She
hoped he had the sense to stay within his time segment. Tugging at the
hem of her skirt, she forced it to cover her knees.
"And soft the
lily light of golden dawn/ tiptoes around each slowly fading star/ to
greet the stretching world's awaking yawn…" Max intoned. Swaying.
Singing. Roaring. The sonnet tried its wings, crashing at the ceiling
and the corners of the auditorium. Max's silver-flecked hair glistened
moistly, separating in strands which disappeared into the gorge of his
embroidered collar; sweat surfaced at the pit of his sleeves as if part
of him strained back, free of the poem.
Augusta estimated
that there were a couple of hundred students and a half dozen adults out
front. She was conscious of a low, steady din: shiftings as restless legs
crossed and uncrossed, other wigglings impossible to classify. So You
Want to Be a Poet?--it was obvious not many here had that goal. This
show of indifference would have rankled her except for her observation
that the country overflowed with poets already. She thought, it's enough
to encourage an appreciation of poetry. What folly to lead others to become
poets when there are now so many, so many who bring with them little more
than their pretensions. Privately, she rejoiced that she was not
one of them, that her own credentials were as solid as igneous rock.
Suppose that six,
only six, she thought, because of me began to write and to receive even
minimal recognition as poets and suppose that they in turn influenced
others to follow. What a proliferation of verse! The possibilities made
her distinctly queasy. She determined that her mission should be to educate
the public to a better reception of existing poetry and poets. Having
verbalized this aim internally, however, she was scarcely less apprehensive.
There remained the problem of checks and balances. The enormity of the
decision was evident, but she admonished herself that this, of all occasions,
was not one for self-doubts. "Please…" she whispered inside and was astonished
to discover herself appealing to a higher power. For as long as she could
recollect, she had only believed in herself.
"And now for a
little something from The River Trilogy," Max bellowed, shooting
a sly backward look at Augusta and Dawn. "Which is the title of my latest
book."
And now there are
two. Two books by this silly man, Augusta thought, intercepting Dawn's
amused wink. "Big shit!" Dawn mouthed behind a cupped hand, cigarette
smoke spouting from her nostrils.
"I call this my
experimental collection," he told the audience. "They are all experimental,
though. All writing is an experiment." He chuckled dryly and, after a
lengthy shuffling of loose sheets, separated one paper from the rest.
"The Eye Seeks the Eye." His voice vibrated with emotion. "The eye
seeks itself/ a convolution of waters/ a circling, dissolving of textures/
where the world commits suicide/ by day and at night…"
Augusta's attention
shifted to the tidy mound of props at her feet: the spiral notepad with
her talk handwritten inside; the bronze Poet Laureate's plaque inscribed
to her by The Longfellow Saturday Morning Poetry Club; and on top, the
books. I should have presented them at once, she fretted. Too late to
think of that now, though. She commenced to plan a ceremony for the books'
disposition, something simple but unique to cap off the assembly's conclusion.
With a dramatic
pause, a searing whisper, Max finished and sat down to a flutter of applause.
An immediate soaring of conversation shook the room, and Miss Erskine,
childfaced and unacknowledged, introduced Dawn to no avail, the murmur
of a seashell in the ocean's roar.
Augusta came close
to admiration, but caught herself quickly, when Dawn removed a sandal
and used it as a gavel on the lectern. In the ensuing calm, she replaced
her shoe and, dropping her cigarette, the fifth by Augusta's count, decimated
it underfoot, then leaned forward resting both skinny arms on the stand.
"Hello. My name is Dawn Paulson. Today I want to talk to you first about
some qualities I think a good poet needs." Hers is a soft voice escalated
by the loudspeaker to the belly of the auditorium and dropped like ethereal
meltings.
Free to inspect
Dawn from behind, Augusta noticed that Max, seated beside her, was doing
likewise. Dawn's clothing was, as always, arty; this afternoon's costume
was a country/cowgirl/poet blend--skirt of wrinkled madras, a rhinestone-studded
denim vest with only a halter underneath. Augusta's nose twitched with
disapproval, although she would not have denied that the get-up was an
honest projection, a crazy but true preview, of Dawn's poetic wheelings,
which consisted of a sort of fragmentary verse composed of apparently
random collisions of unrelated phrases. Writing which had a surface flashiness
and could not be deciphered. "A poet must have loads of self-discipline."
Thin arcs of fingernails flashed blue enamel as Dawn paused to rig another
smoke. Her toenails, polished to match, poked from the high-wedged sandals
like lizard heads. Peculiar. There were occasions when even blue could
be a poor choice, Augusta observed. It was a conclusion, however, which
she put carefully out of mind. No time to have self doubts. The worst
possible moment to be caught in a crunch of misgivings.
Poetry is the spritsong
of man, she rehearsed mentally. Her hand touched the sport where she had
attached the emblem. Yes, it was still there. She felt reassured somehow
by its presence.
Dawn read one of
her poems, a short bit of fox-craft. First and last lines, the same. Augusta
did not much care for it.
Now Dawn was baring
her soul--clever Dawn!--admitting to one and all that hers was only a
tenth grade education. Her achievements as a writer seemed all the more
impressive because of this shortcoming, which, as she told one and all,
she did not consider a shortcoming. She made any except the most
elemental of schooling sound foolish, seem the one resource least necessary
to a poet. "Look at me," she directed. "Publishing, giving readings, and
not as much formal education as some of you kids out there." After a lot
of enthusiastic clapping and whistling from the sophomores, juniors and
seniors, she proceeded to other readings, while Augusta coughed and strangled
demurely and tried to dredge up a subtle but effective rebuttal to that
philosophy.
It would take some
doing. But as the senior poet, as the Poet Laureate, the reversal of damage
was up to her. What did she have in her notes? She could hardly recall.
Poetry is the spiritsong of man. What else?
"Trouble," Max
Burden muttered suddenly.
"What?" Augusta
imagined she had misheard. Trouble was right, though. It was a real bother,
this following after, having to clean up the messes of others. Trouble.
A nudge from Max.
"Trouble," he repeated, stabbing a turquoise rimmed forefinger in the
direction of the audience where the school's principal had just stood,
a scowl uniting his caterpillar eyebrows. Now he broke in upon Dawn with
an announcement: the school had received a bomb threat and was to be evacuated
at once.
"I
though my part went rather well," Max said. A drop of rain fell, drained
down the ridge of his nose. "I seemed to have them with me, don't you
think?" The three poets stood in a separate knot isolated from the irregular,
almost dispersed, lines of students and school personnel who had filed
out to the curbs.
"You were very
good." Augusta hated herself for saying it. She would have been happier
if the compliment had been excessive. She glanced at the three books in
her arms. A premonition pricked at her, an almost certain knowledge that
disaster was at hand. Not the bomb. But an unbearable, personal loss.
Above the young pines, the clouds conglomerated, complicating her depression.
Her fingers itched to sign a couple of books and pass them to nearby teachers,
but she resisted the urge. Faith, she told herself. She must maintain
faith. It was no time to yield to doubts.
Poetry is the spiritsong
of man, she reiterated mentally.
"Right in the middle
of The Soul Speaks to the Moon!" bitched Dawn, taking a drag clear down
to the filter and coughing smoke. She considered it her most significant
poem, Damn! she almost hoped there really was a bomb.
Instead, after
a while the principal signaled an all-clear and Augusta breathed a sigh
of relief, her trust in the continuity of events justified. Immediately
another announcement followed; its negativity burst inside her in a private
detonation: the assembly had been terminated since it was almost time
for the afternoon school buses to arrive. Trapped with the other two in
a spillway of apologies and appreciations, she murmured suitable rejoinders
to the principal and Miss Erskine and smiled until her teeth ached.
When they were
alone, Max said he had to get the hell out, anyway: he had another appointment.
Too late, Augusta remembered that she was still in possession of all the
volumes of Solitude and Clatterings. "Well, I never heard of anything
so inexcusable in all my life," she said to Dawn.
"What about 'The
Soul Speaks to the Moon'?" Dawn fumed to no one in particular. By then,
Augusta had trotted off to find a phone booth and call a taxicab.
At
last she saw it. The cab slowed, coasted along the curb; the dome of its
driver, hairless as a frog, poked over to the rolled-down window on the
opposite side. "This Crestmont School?" Then with a stretch that caused
the upholstery to crackle, he got half his body above his seat and leaned
back to release the lock to the door behind. It flung out with vehemence,
almost hitting Augusta.
My God! She thought,
blenching. All I need is to get knocked flat on my fanny. She had a vision
of herself lying twisted, a blue pretzel, on the sidewalk--books willy-nilly,
the poet laureate plaque with a corner broken. She saw herself struggling
up, her stockings torn and tacky.
She
sighed, settled on the cracked vinyl, yanked the door shut, and sighed
again. "Thirty-five ninety Evergreen Drive," she said, observing the driver's
profile as he bent to set the flag. Prominent eyeballs, acne scarred jaws,
hide jaundiced. The corners of his mouth drooped to his chin, and the
chin united with a neck concealed in a ruffle of skin folds. An ugly man,
she thought.
"Warm today," she
said brightly. Except for a glance in the read view mirror, he did not
respond. "I thought the door had me. Just for a second I thought the door
had me!"
"Umm." The driver
awarded her another flick via the mirror. He had unusual eyes: colorless,
invisible lids, no lashes. "Bad day?"
"What?" she asked.
Had he spoken?
"Bad day?"
"The worst." She
fooled with her hat, got it back in position, became aware of an uncomfortable
tightness at her hips and waist and unbuckled her belt, an actions which
did nothing to relieve the constriction. The girdle was in better condition
that she had supposed. "A day without accomplishment, a day of loss."
Easing her feet out of their narrow confines, she rested her stocking
soles on the tops of her shoes.
Beyond the window
a hodgepodge of old brick warehouses fled backwards; the taxi bounced
over railroad tracks; the clamor of a burglar alarm came toward them,
strident and urgent, then receded as they moved on, bumping along a cobbled
segment of street. "Still there is usually some good in everything," Augusta
continued, trying to figure out the good in the literary fiasco of that
afternoon.
"I know what you
mean," agreed the driver, although, of course, he did not. He checked
his watch: a couple of hours and he would be off, might get over to the
dog races later. He began to hum, an old tune, peppy: "The Yellow Rose
of Texas." With one finger he drummed the rhythm on the steering wheel,
reserving the remainder of the hand for driving.
"Even here," interposed
Augusta. She indicated the decaying, ramshackle houses hovering upon the
thin street. "There is some good here. For example…" A foul and persistent
odor bothered her. Merciful lord, the driver was drinking! The open bottle
was in full sight, resting in the litter caddy on the hump that tunneled
down the center of the floor.
"For example, you
see an ugly neighborhood here. But there is beauty in ugliness, too."
"Beauty in ugliness,"
repeated the driver. Strange lady. He checked his watch again.
"Ugliness is not
an absolute, is it? There is always a degree of the opposite in any quality,
don't you think? The stark reality of ugliness holds a kind of beauty.
These tumbling houses, these warped exteriors have an excellence of their
own." With solicitous fingertips Augusta sought the poet laureate pin
on her chest. Yes, it was still there, the clasp holding it, small yet
eloquent, just above her heart. She sniffed, offended by mephitic vapors.
"I do hope you are not imbibing while driving," she said. The cab had
woven across town, trading mid-city for the university milieu and a section
of older but well-kept homes with tree-sheltered lawns.
"Imbibing?"
"Drinking!"
"Certainly not,"
he said, indignant. Crazy customers. Always having to please a bunch of
crazy butts, that was his job. Them and their nutty talk.
"Well," replied
the Poet Laureate, not believing him. Mentally labeling him a liar. She
hoped he had built up an immunity to the stuff, considered calling his
bluff, but a certain delicacy led her to refrain. That and the realization
that she had to get home somehow. "As I was saying, some good resides
in everything. Ugliness contains its own element of beauty. Also ugliness
serves as a foil without which that beauty which is easily perceived would
seem less." She leaned back, tried to relax, felt the day's awfulness
still jiving inside her. Incredible! It was incredible that she, the Poet
Laureate, had been canceled.
"Beginning to rain,"
said the driver, permitting himself a broad yawn, its ferment winding
to his passenger. He turned a knob and the windshield wipers flung into
action; their blades screeched with flesh-crawling regularity, flattened
the few large drops. Smudged the view. He had chosen a roundabout route.
Augusta was positive of it but decided against mentioning the fact.
"Still it's difficult
to see the good in bad poetry," she admitted. "I think bad poetry confuses
people. 'Poetry?' they say. 'That's poetry?' Then they don't like any
poetry or, worse, they conclude that being a poet is easy and begin turning
out all sorts of drivel and passing it off as poetry."
"You a poet?" the
man up front asked. She did not look like a poet. Not like he thought
an honest-to-goodness poet would look. A bit touched perhaps, bur a so-so
lady nonetheless. "Ever hear this one? 'I think that I shall never see…'"
"Poetry is the
spiritsong of man," interjected Augusta. After the day's enervation, she
was suddenly drained. She tried to blot from her memory the performance
of Dawn and Max. Trivial and limited as they were, they were better than
she had expected. Disturbingly so. She did not like the worm of inadequacy
which kept at her, wiggling, trying to tunnel into her to lodge on the
shadow side of confidence. Tiredness seemed almost to overwhelm her. "Poetry
is…" she began, continuing compulsively.
"The song of man,"
the driver repeated, nodding. He looked at his watch. Only an hour and
a half left.
The cab rolled
over a narrow bridge, following the curve into Evergreen Drive and slowed
as he began to pay attention to numbers. A street of brick and stucco
houses, mostly-the trim substantial types built back in the thirties.
He hoped she would speak up, not let him overshoot the address. "Say when,"
he said. First thing when he got off, he'd stop somewhere for a burger
or so with the works, lots of onions. Damn, he was starved. Suddenly completely
gut-empty. Beginning to sweat with hunger.
"That it?" he asked,
jabbing his thumb houseward.
Augusta saw that
she was home. Scrambling among the contents of her purse, she got her
billfold. She gathered her belongings: the pad, plaque, the books. Three
books. All three books. The humiliation of the day burned as if it would
consume her with its painful flame.
Reversing, the
taxi made an acute swing around and into the slim driveway, jarring everything
from her arms. "Ten forty-five, ma'am." The driver favored her with a
toothless, liplifting grimace during which he hoisted his upper torso
above and across the seat and flipping the handle, got the door beside
her to open.
Augusta recovered
her billfold from where it had slid. She counted out the fare deliberately,
her mind taking itself elsewhere but not far. Dared she? Almost immediately,
she was able to overcome her reservations. As the Poet Laureate, she had
an obligation to promote poetry. How else could she make this day count
for something? She placed the fare on a copy of Solitude and Clatterings
and passed both over to the driver.
"Mr. … Mr. Wiggins,"
she said, having ascertained his name from the chauffeur's identification
on the sun blinder. Wisps of courage buoyed her. "I want…"
"What's this?"
the man broke in, his astonishment branding her with a bald stare.
The words of presentation
escaped her. "Poetry," she said. "A book of my poetry."
"Lady," he consulted
his watch. "I don't accept no gifts. Company policy: no gifts from fares."
Sweeping the cash into one palm, he pushed the book back. She caught it.
Ugly man. Exterior,
interior. Ugly. But he had listened. She thought he had listened. As she
cast about for her scatterings, she made herself believe that: the man
had listened to her. Unassisted, she got out, crashing her head on the
arch above the door; the pain of carelessness whammed like a tropical
explosion inside her skull. Damn, damn, damn! She could not seem to collect
her wits. She heard the cab leaving somewhere. It seemed to depart from
a distance, from some point far, far off.
In the rain-misted
twilight, Carter lowered the garage door. He was especially happy, but
a note of alarm sounded inside him like the hollow noise of a pebble striking
water when he came upon his wife seated motionless in the solitary dimness
of the front step. Beside her: her shoes on her plaque; the spiral notebook
and books on her lap.
"Five catfish,"
he said. "Take a look." Proudly he displayed the dusky contents of the
old bucket. "A couple of them pretty small, though." She said nothing,
and he added, "Don't worry, sweetness, I'll clean them."
"How did the talk
go? Say, how long have you been home?" He imagined a tiny--moan?--he was
not sure and made out, he thought, a strange, unfocused quality about
her shaded face. "Augusta?" he said. "Are you all right?"
"Poetry," she replied
so softly he heard only the aftertrail of the word.
Things had not
gone well, he reasoned, and laying his fishing supplies aside, he aided
Augusta in rising and entering the house.
When he had put
her to bed, he opened a tin of chicken soup and heated it--somewhere he
had heard chicken soup would cure just about anything--and he boiled a
pot of tea which he seasoned with honey and lemon plus a couple of shots
of Jack Daniels, in case she might really be catching something. She resisted
both offerings, but he was patient and got some of each down her.
The
next morning a neighborhood boy stopped by with Augusta's hat. It had
been crushed by traffic, but a few roses remained; an intriguing waffle
design was freshly stamped in black on the crown and part of the brim.
Carter was reluctant to show it to Augusta, but she only glanced at the
remains and turned back to what she was doing, which was writing.
She occupied her
favorite spot, a chintz-printed club chair stationed next to the bay window
of the bedroom. Carter had brought her a cup of hot cocoa from which she
sipped occasionally as she edited the notes for her next speaking engagement.
As Poet Laureate,
she felt she had a special obligation to each audience. "Poetry is the
spiritsong of man," she mused aloud now, discoloring her lips with the
tip of the ballpoint pen as she mulled over the definition. "That doesn't
sound right, does it?" she asked her husband. "It seems somehow very trite.
I'm sure I've heard it before. Often. Introductory remarks are so important,
too."
She was positive
that with an ounce of ingenuity she could come up with something much
better.
