[Deborah Warren]

Thoughts During a Quiet Car Trip


In the years when our marriage was peerless and new,
I dismissed people’s claims that, one day,
even lovers who chatted as much as we two
would be lovers with little to say.

Now behold: We discuss our week’s plans well enough,
and our kids and careers, then turn dull,
having long ago drained our supply of the stuff
we could jabber about in a lull:

Which ten movies or books or CDs would we pack
if we knew we’d be stuck on an isle?
Where’d we most like to live—Santa Fe? Fond du Lac?
Is it true that a dolphin can smile?

And what dishes would each of us hanker to eat
on death row, for our very last meal?
And which day is the one we would want to repeat?
And is parapsychology real?

You’ve announced whom you’d drink with, if given your pick
from among all the living and dead.
I’ve declared that I’d rather kiss Bowie than Mick,
but would chew on a sneaker instead.

We’ve debated religion, the meaning of life,
whether love is a matter of luck,
who was funniest (Gomer? Aunt Bea? Barney Fife?),
how we’d spend fifty mil, to the buck.

So we’re left to just sit, yawn and sigh, hum a tune,
like the bulk of paired women and men.
But don’t worry: Senility’s bound to hit soon.
Then we’ll say what we’ve said once again.

[Deborah Warren]

This is a love letter that happens to be an anapaestic ballad. It’s awash with affection—and the writer doesn’t fool us if—as she doesn’t—she wants to convey a now-boring marriage. It’s nostalgia but with a bit of attitude.

But not really nostalgia. The couple’s past debates are not the memories of a couple grown dull. Conversation has been the currency of their relationship, and they can afford to do with less of it because they can withdraw it from the bank whenever they like. Comfortable, maybe, but there’s nothing wrong with comfort.

This is a pair I wouldn’t mind taking a drive with.

[Roger Slater]

I love it. The best so far by a mile.

[Rick Mullin]

Absolutely! Just when I thought things were going to get ugly around here, a poem that nails the assignment.

Bravissimo! This one could only have been written by a Yank!~,:^)

[Janice D. Soderling]

Craftsmanship and content. Yes, I think I have it as first choice so far. I do lean towards a craftswoman in the U.K. though.

[Roger Slater]

But Janice, do they really have Gomer, Aunt Bea and Barney Fife in the UK? Please say it's not so.

No, I definitely think it's an American, and I have narrowed it down in my mind to two choices.

[Jim Burrows]

My favorite so far by quite a bit. Sounds like it was written by a person who speaks English, not American, but then here come Gomer, Barney and Bea. One would have preferred an Earnest T Bass, but he's hard to fit into anapests.

[Rick Mullin]

I am proud to have transferred the senseless and incendiary speculation as to whether a poem is written by a Brit or a Yank from the "bear" poem to the "car" poem. My work here is done.

RM

[Petra Norr]

A parody of bad poetry?
If this poem is for real, it's truly dreadful. It's most certainly a poem, but it's the kind of poem I'd expect to see at an online site for beginner poets.
Sorry.

[Steve Mangan]

... Mick and Bowie are of international reknown, more so than the Andy Griffith show, so by a Yank I would think...

... except that reruns of the show have been on Sky TV in the UK and on the satelite 'living' channel...

... nonetheless, by an American I think at this point.

A thumbs up from me, towards the top of the list so far