With Emily
Dickinson, as Walt Whitman Walks in the Bar
by Con Chapman
You speak
of Mr. Whitman. I never read his Book--but was
told it was disgraceful.
Emily Dickinson, letter to Thomas Higginson
Oh no, here is that
Whitman man
I’ve heard he is a bounder.
Don’t look his way or catch his
eye-
Just get another round, dear.
I hear America drinking,
the varied drinks I hear--
Those of stockbrokers, each one ordering his
vodka, straight and strong,
The lawyer with his gin and tonic as he gauges
his odds of winning his case,
The advertising man, with his first of three
martinis, as he thinks of jingles to sing.
The venture capitalist, singing as he
contemplates his carried interest in a risky
start-up--
Drinking with open mouths their staunch reviving
drinks.
How dreary to be so
full of one’s self.
Concentered on one’s soul.
I’d rather be a can on a shelf,
Or underground like a mole.
I speak of pineapple in the
bartender’s fruit caddy!
I am the poet of the lemon and the lime!
Of the maraschino cherry sublime-
Of the pearl onion, and the celery stalk that
graces the Mary that is Bloody,
And the olive, a mere surplusage perhaps, but
without it, the martini is too modest, too plain,
Put on your adornment, o drink of gin and very
little vermouth– vile no more, your brothers
and sisters approach you!
He drinks and talks too
freely,
A downspout in the rain.
I do not like this bar and grille,
I shall not come again.
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