Tag Archives: perspectives

Song: Marcus Bales, ‘Those Got-To-Leave-You Blues’

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Well, he was near played out when I went on and took him in.
His mind and body like his clothes were worn.
His self-control and wallet like his boots were mighty thin.
I patched him up wherever he was torn.
He needed somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’d begin
To grow a callus back someone had shorn.
There wasn’t much he’d ask that I’d refuse
Until he got those got-to-leave-you blues.

He said “I’ve got those got-to-leave-you blues,
You understand the way it is, I’m sure.
But I’ve got ramblin’ fever in my shoes
That only walkin’ lonesome roads can cure.”

I smiled and nodded and I thought there always comes a day
When being treated well will get to you
When hurt so bad you lash out in that narcissistic way
And all the good I’ve done or might yet do
Is twisted with dependence, and it’s something you can’t say.
So you are acting out now right on cue.
I said “I kept your outfit, every rag,
So here’s your boots and there’s your travelin’ bag.”

When they’ve got ramblin’ fever in their shoes
I give them back the worn-out stuff they brought,
Since if they think they’re giving me the blues
They won’t be gettin’ anything I bought.

He doesn’t know and I don’t say he’s not the only one
I’ve helped who’s helped me make it through a night
Or several whether in the short or in the medium run,
Nor will he be the last to find the sight
Of those white center-lines out on that road there in the sun
Will make him feel he’s never been not right,
And he’ll regret he’s giving me bad news
That he has got the got-to-leave-you blues.

He doesn’t see it’s me who gets to choose.
There’s half a dozen others just like him
Who’ll washed up here whose ramblin’ fever shoes
Are looking for a road a bit less grim.

He takes his stuff and tries to not look back
To see if I will notice that he does.
I give him one sad smile, then eye the pack
To pick the next one care-worn as he was.

And he’ll be near played out when I go on and take him in.
His mind and body like his clothes are worn.
His self-control and wallet like his boots are mighty thin
I’ll start to patch him up where he’s been torn.
He’s needing somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’ll begin
To grow a callus back someone had shorn.
There isn’t much he’ll ask that I’ll refuse
Until he gets those got-to-leave-you blues.

*****

Marcus Bales writes: “One of the song tropes my brother John and I used to enjoy mocking the most as we listened to records or the radio in our shared bedroom in the late 60s in Columbus, Ohio in our early teens was an odd one for a pair of Air Force brats whose whole life experience had been saying goodbye to new friends whose parents were being irrevocably transferred somewhere else, never to be seen again, or we were being similarly transferred away, and that trope was the country or blues song addressed to the woman by the ramblin’ man whose litany of reasons to leave seemed, to us, whose leavings and arriving were dictated by unequivocal orders, thin-to-non-existent. The singer was constantly moaning about how, despite how good he had it, he was movin’ on . John and I thought it was hilarious that civilians would voluntarily abandon situations in which, by their own accounts, they simply had no good reason to leave. We’d left, or been left, by that time, by a decade and a half of friends. The very notion that some cowboy or bluesman felt like there must be greener grass down the road that never ends seemed ludicrous. We’d seen those pastures. We’d ridden down those roads. We’d flown that wild blue yonder to other states and countries. We thought that plea of desperate yarning was a load of crap. 

What’s the woman’s side of the story? It occurred to me that she probably thought that ramblin’ fever was a load of crap, too. And, maybe, that it made for a nice change from time to time, since in all those songs and stories he wanders off, but she gets the house. Maybe she got the better deal. And, so, voila.”

Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, and his work has not appeared in Poetry or The New Yorker. His latest book is 51 Poems; reviews and information at http://tinyurl.com/jo8ek3r

Photo: “Pat, July 15, 2011 – Rambling Man” by pat00139 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Short poem: Daniel Brown, ‘So Large’

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Big world when I was very young.
The shopping aisles a mile long …
Our lawn, though anything but wide,
Unfolding like the countryside …
The sky! So large and far away …
Exactly as it is today.

*****

Daniel Brown writes: “In his brilliant tome ‘The Poem’, Don Paterson says  “[I]f you ‘get a good idea for a poem’, I’d suggest you run a mile, as this generally isn’t the way poems make themselves known.” Advice worth attending to, though it’s also worth noting the little ‘out’ Paterson gives himself with that ‘generally’. I’m glad Robert Frost didn’t run from the powerfully suggestive idea–that “the people along the sand” are always looking out to sea, not back at the land–of his ‘Neither Out Far nor In Deep’; that W. S. Merwin didn’t run from the piercing premise–that “every year without knowing it” we pass the date of our death– of his ‘For the Anniversary of my Death’ . . . When the idea for “So Large” hit my hook, I felt like I had a big one on the line.”

“So Large” first appeared in The New Criterion under the title “A Giant.”

Daniel Brown’s poems have appeared in Poetry, Partisan Review, PN Review, Raritan, Parnassus, The New Criterion and other journals, as well as in a number of anthologies including Poetry 180 (ed. Billy Collins) and The Swallow Anthology of New American Poets (ed. David Yezzi). His work has been awarded a Pushcart prize, and his collection Taking the Occasion (Ivan R. Dee, 2008) won the New Criterion Poetry Prize. His latest collection is What More?  (Orchises Press, 2015). Brown’s criticism of poets and poetry has appeared in The Harvard Book Review, The New Criterion, PN Review, The Hopkins Review  and other journals, and the LSU Press has published his critical book, Subjects in Poetry. His Why Bach? and Bach, Beethoven, Bartok are audio-visual ebooks available at Amazon.com. His website is danielbrownpoet.com .

“‘Odd Formations’, England, The Peak District, Kinder Scout Hilltop” by WanderingtheWorld (www.ChrisFord.com) is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Barbara Loots, ‘A Note to my Old Age’

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By now you shall have counted out my fears
on many fingers, and I count them, too,
because I know I am already you
remembering myself from your old years.

How loved you were: your hands, your heavy breasts,
your laughter, and the secret talk of eyes,
the vivid mouth, the spreading lap of thighs
(beloved woman, warm and fully blessed

whose laughter lined our face with troughs for tears!)
I write this down in order to prepare
a kind of perfume for your sallow hair,
a kiss, a love song for your wrinkled ears.

*****

Barbara Loots writes: “Following a form of Yeats (“When you are old and gray and full of sleep…”) I wrote this note to myself in my 30s. Now closing in on my 80s, I feel not in the least wistful or decrepit, still waiting for that imagined “old age”. With the perspective of some fifty years, I can say that old age is not at all as dismal as this poem would suggest. For one thing, my hair turned a rather dazzling white. And love faileth not.”

After decades of publishing her poems, Barbara Loots has laurels to rest on, but keeps climbing.  The recent gathering at Poetry by the Sea in Connecticut inspired fresh enthusiasm. Residing in Kansas City, Missouri, Barbara and her husband Bill Dickinson are pleased to welcome into the household a charming tuxedo kitty named Miss Jane Austen, in honor of the 250th birthday year of that immortal. She has new work coming in The Lyric, in the anthology The Shining Years II, and elsewhere. She serves as the Review editor for Light Poetry Magazine (see the Guidelines at  lightpoetrymagazine.com)

Marcus Bales: ‘Villains, Too’

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Villains, too, believe they’re righting wrongs,
Their traumas just as blunt as yours or mine.
They write their manifestoes, sing their songs,
And hope their cancer screens turn out benign;
It’s where they differ that the trouble lies.
Their personal concerns are all they see.
For them there are no others’ laughs or cries —
We’re furniture to them, not you, not me.
They see us not as people, but as means
For them to harm a world that helped their foes,
Or if we give them pleasure, as machines
To give whatever pleasure that they chose.
They see themselves as victims who must seize
Their rights to do whatever they may please.

*****

Marcus Bales writes: “Villains, Too is one more in a series of attempts to write this poem. If I knew exactly what I was trying to say I hope I’d have actually said it by now. The forlorn fragments of phrases strung through my notes for poems show that this business recurs and wants something from me. I hope to get this done, eventually. In the meantime, without spending too much time trolling through my own failings, here’s the last time I tried:

Grinning Henchmen

They do not wake up sharing bwahahas
With grinning henchmen as they shave, and think
“Today I shall be evil!” No, the laws
Are on their side. They never even blink
At all the tears and suffering they cause.
They’ve got their lives to live, and they don’t shrink
From living them, like you and me, with flaws
And virtues, growing families, food and drink,
And love and death. They look at life and view it
Just like us. And in our common murk
They did each evil deed and never knew it
To be evil. No one, king to clerk,
Has thought they’re doing evil as they do it;
They always think they’re doing some god’s work.”

Not much is known about Marcus Bales except that he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, and that his work has not been published in Poetry or The New Yorker. However his ’51 Poems’ is available from Amazon.

Photo: “Villain with fire” by Tambako the Jaguar is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.