Two
poems from Michael Lee Phillips's The Man in the Barrel
followed
by a note on the author
Teaching
the Romantics
How
old do you have to be before you can elope?
True question.
Girl had
her hand up, front row, peaches and cream cheeks,
something less between the
ears.
Imagine Shelley's heart getting passed around. Trelawney
hamming it
up, strutting. Military bravado
always gets them. Byron sulking
somewhere
in the back row, leching on the girl to his left.
Keats? He was yesterday,
and this is all
pretty much a drag. They've seen these guys
before –
that pyre on the beach,
the mighty hands that ripped a real heart
from a
squishy chest cavity – all part of the tour, dude,
like this was before
they were even born: yawn, yawn.
Oh,
but that girl – she wants to know about elopement.
Let's take a serious
look
at some of those who tied their knot early.
Let's start with the
old greats: Keats, 25, Shelley, 29, Byron, 36.
And you know what's coming:
James Dean, 24, Kurt Cobain, 27,
Marilyn, 36,
John Lennon, 40, Brian Jones,
27, Buddy Holly, 22,
Sylvia, 30,
Richie Valens, 17, Big Bopper, 28, Sam
Cooke, 33, Hank
Williams, 29, Otis Redding, 26,
Elvis, 42,
Tupac Shakur,
25, Heath Ledger, 28, Robert Johnson, 27,
Bird, 34.
Okay,
okay. I hear you – you want to know what this litany
of the dead is all
about – what's your frickin' point,
as you so eloquently ask.
The point
is that these people took some heavy vows
before their time – you understand
that, you logoed-up knuckleheads?
Think about this: Jimi, Janis, and Jim, 27,
27, 27.
Now, there's a lottery number!
These people eloped for good with
a mate they can't divorce
and now they've got a question for you.
And
believe me the chorus singing this question has got some pipes!
This is the
question that Hamlet wanted to skip,
the one question everyone will answer.
Take
your time on this one people – soon as everyone
gets quiet. Thank you.
Remember,
one side of the paper only.
Okay, here it is: How old do you have to be
before you can die?
The
Persistence
This is the story that a mother once told her son.
They were dying, she told
him.
Every night in the ward they would die.
Death began to pile up.
Soon
they had huge piles of it everywhere.
In the mess hall they were served left
over death.
They were ordered to eat it.
It tasted fine, said the mother,
but it's not for little boys.
But
the little boy was somewhat spoiled.
He demanded to know.
You're persistent,
she told him, and she amused him
with the word, persistent. She played
with it.
Things persist, she told him, they persist!
They
both laughed. Try it. You might laugh too.
It's a funny word: persist!
It
may be used in so many things one might say or write or think.
There
were thousands of things that persisted in the mother.
Things that she wanted
to tell her son,
things that wouldn't die
unlike all that death she carried
back with her on the train.
Yes, trains are persistent.
Just try
standing in front of one – you'll see.
After a troop ship brought the
mother home from the Philippines
a train had carried her and all the death
inside her
from San Francisco to Boston.
The map she carried was not inside
her.
Neither was San Francisco or Boston – don't be foolish.
There
was too much death inside her and no room
for anything else, even the map.
The
death that the mother carried, one is tempted to interject, stayed inside her.
Nothing could rid her of it.
This is jus to prevent you from falling for
what follows.
The little boy was certain, you see,
in that little boy way,
that at night, every night, some of the death
would escape from his mother
as she slept.
You guessed it – angels. Well, come on, he was a little
boy.
He
told his mother that he could see death
flying away from her in the night.
He
told her that it was beautiful and she cried.
You see, it was infallible proof
that he was still a little boy
and knew practically nothing about anything.
The
little boy, it was clear, knew nothing about maps – like the one
the mother
had carried all the way back from the war.
Christ! Don't ask what war –
it was a war
and the mother was there!
Yes, a nurse – obviously. Please
don't piss me off here.
The
mother is finishing up her story
and the boy needs to pay attention. The mother
is trying
to tell the little boy about the map.
The mother thinks she
has it figured out.
She doesn't, of course, but it's the sentiment –
we respect
the sentiment, you see.
Because the locations of the deaths
inside her could be
traced to positions on the map
the mother believes
that she has it figured out.
Stay off the map, she is telling the little boy,
and stay away
from coordinates – you could end up forever inside someone
else.
But the boy – that little guy is getting
confused here –-
he's struggling with that word, coordinates.
©
Michael
Lee Phillips was born in Trona, California, and earned his BA from Fresno State
College. Since then he worked briefly on newspapers as a reporter, feature editor
and photo editor. At various times he has worked as a technical writer, track
coach and teacher. He has resided abroad for short periods of time, principally
in Greece and Ireland and currently lives in the high desert region of Southern
California. His poems have appeared in the Antioch Review, Beloit Poetry
Journal, Cutthroat, the Literary Review, the Stinging Fly
(Ireland), and many other journals.
