In the Tavern of Lost Souls

by Lenny Everson

  Only shade

  And tried many supermarkets but

  Still no shadow

  We told her she must be pure

  And that an immaculate conception

  Was a definite possibility, but

  “What will happen if God comes?” she asked

  “How will I know which way to look?”

  Eventually, certain God could not see her

  She married a man whose soul was

  Like the underside of a log.

  Then she was much happier.

  When he was drinking his morning coffee

  She had only to turn away

  To look toward God.

  *

  Why are There Shadows? [Blossom]

  some follow money

  some follow angels

  some, love

  throw a coin, rich woman

  give a blessing, holy lady

  to that shadow

  sitting on the courthouse steps

  laughing at old photos.

  *

  Why are There Shadows? [Alf]

  In the evening of his later years, Lazarus

  Took to walking the olive groves

  Outside Bethany

  He said he liked to admire

  The pattern the shadows made

  On the warm ground.”

  He himself had no shadow, you know.

  His grandchildren teased him about this.

  In the dusk, when the crickets began

  To sing of eternity

  He’d wait, sadly, on the old stone bridge

  Watching the shades of everything

  Fill up everyone else’s world.

  *

  Why are There Shadows? [Calhoun]

  Oh, Lollie! The brighter the light

  The darker the shadow, you know.

  Come with me to the shady side of life

  Bring whiskey and water, lilacs and worms

  We'll toast our own deaths

  Celebrate the pitter patter of forgotten years

  Under the old stairs.

  I'll put my hand inside your blouse

  Feel your shadow heart.

  We will watch the feet of glowing people go by

  The saved soles gliding under heavenlight.

  Bless them, all, every one

  In this darkness we sit on old crossed planks

  Laugh, play with nails

  And dream of night.

  ****

  Chapter 16: Why is Water?

  It had rained all day, and the skies had gone from gray to black without a hint that somewhere on the planet there was sunshine, warmth, and drought.

  Lollie draped her coat over a spare chair from another table. The other chairs contained raincoats from Cal, Alf, and Blossom, as well as an umbrella opened to dry. The poets were seated at the usual table.

  "Late," Alf said. Blossom got up and made her way to the women's room.

  "The bus went by. Almost empty. I waved, and the drive just ignored me."

  "The damned of the planet," Cal said. "They can sense it, you know."

  Lollie looked at Alf. He nodded. Bus drivers take special courses to sense damnation. The desperate, the poor, the freaks, they'll stop for, but they like to keep away from the cursed.

  Lollie shook her head, and sat down, taking poems from her backpack. Then she got a napkin and wiped the mist off her glasses. "It's more crowded than usual tonight." There were at least fifteen other people in the room.

  "Entertainment again." The dark of the moon had coincided with a Saturday night and, it seemed, the tavern owner's renewed drive to improve the atmosphere of his place. The little stage in the corner had a small amplifier, a big speaker, and a guitar resting on a stand.

  "Arrived during the break, did I?"

  Alf nodded, and was about to say something when water started dripping onto the table. At once the bartender arrived with a blue plastic bucket, which he placed in front of Cal.

  "Shall we move?" Lollie asked.

  "Can't see why." Alf indicated several other buckets around the room. "The water'd just hunt us down." He looked at Cal.

  "It's like having a candle at your table, only with suitable adjustments for poets."

  Lollie sighed. "We'd better do the poems before the band comes back on."

  "Just a folksinger," Cal said. "Probably the boss's nephew or something. He's good, but I remember throwing a loonie into his guitar case a couple of days ago on Yonge."

  Blossom returned, took in the situation, and said, "Idiots." But she sat down, then said, "Deal." She got the ace, and passed copies of her poem around the bucket.

  Just after all four poets were done, the singer got back up on the stage, tuned his guitar, and started singing "The Water is Wide," as sad a song as any Lollie had heard.

  *

  Why is Water? [Blossom]

  he took me fishing, once

  perch, and light-dappled sunfish

  i watched his method

  he misled them with gifts

  trapped them, dragged them in

  dropped them flopping

  into an old bucket

  we were new

  the air was clear, but

  i was swimming in love.

  *

  Why is Water? [Calhoun]

  Turn and dream

  Turn again and dream

  I would not deny you fire

  But I can only give you water

  Coursing in on rolling waves.

  Don’t blame me

  I am a gentle dying whale

  Loving the sea

  And you, a long-winged bird

  On a sand beach, turning

  Feeling air

  On white feathers.

  *

  Why is Water? [Alf]

  God strides the galaxy

  To watch His handiwork

  (Which He thinks is really good).

  Sometimes he rolls a few comets

  Inward towards a solar furnace

  Always quick to admire the

  Filigreed tail and the majesty of

  Parabolas.

  It has its hazards; sometimes

  A planet is struck, and becomes infested

  With hard-to-remove

  Life.

  *

  Why is Water? [Lollie]

  She found herself on the slippery

  On the rocks so passionately embraced by green

  Weed

  The suck and spew of waves

  Red markers for lobster pots, and beyond, the

  Sea that refused to take her

  She found an empty shampoo bottle

  Pert, from Canada

  It was her life, she thought

  On the dry soil, she is a writer;

  By the sea, she is a nun.

  ****

  Chapter 17: What Medicine do I Need?

  My father was the perfect mark. Anybody with any sort of con could spot him a mile away.

  The amazing thing was, he was convinced he could see right through most con games, if he tried hard enough.

  And you know, he could. It just took him a couple of tries. Then he'd get this big smile and you'd know he'd figured it out. But by that time he'd bought one or two of whatever they were selling. We had a basement full of stuff that was not worth buying, but he'd paid too much to actually throw it away.

  Sometimes, when I was small, I wondered if Ma had conned him into marriage, or fathering me and my sisters. I sort of pictured him, ten years into marriage, suddenly waking up one morning and looking at Ma and shouting, "Ha! I just caught on!"

  Not that it wasn't a happy marriage. Having been hoodwinked into marriage and kids and a house and a job with the city, he was always trying to see what Ma would fool him into doing next.

  She loved him. She was always planning the next big trick. I truly believe she figured us kids were a series of jokes she'd played on her husband. Two of us were born on April first, you know, and I was within hou
rs of Halloween.

  If Ma hadn't hung on three more hours, I'd have had to go round the neighbourhood every year and get my birthday presents in a bag. As it was, most of my presents for the first twelve years were leftover candies.

  I was always listening to things, he said. My folks would take us kids for a walk in the forest, and I'd always trip, because I wanted to listen to see if pines made a different sound than spruces, or tamaracks. We had a fire on the beach, and I burnt one of my toes half off because I was walking around trying to figure the difference between the hiss of the fire and the hiss of the waves. Can you understand that?

  I can remember the sound of hay in the barn when Paula Stannish and I first did it in the loft. I can't remember what she looked like, but I can remember the sound. I can't remember what she felt like, even. Just the sound. Do you remember sight or sound or touch best?

  Maybe sound is the medicine I need, but I write mostly visual stuff. Don't want you people to think I'm strange, you know, sitting here listening to the sound of poets falling into doom.

  *

  What Medicine Do I Need? [Lollie]

  Touch.

  All the rest just keep the body alive.

  *

  What Medicine Do I Need? [Alf]

  The fourth horseman offered me

  A selection of fine Nazareth cheeses and

  A flagon of God’s mercy

  I sliced the cheeses but poured the liquid

  Red as blood onto the soil of Palestine

  From out the sand the dried hands of Judas

  Clawed the brittle air a moment

  Trying to catch a bit

  I hope he found enough to wet his splintered lips

  “He was my brother,” I told the tired horseman

  Handing the jar back

  “But

  Please tell God we thank him for the cheeses.

  *

  What Medicine Do I Need? [Calhoun]

  He was a purveyor of the sales of stars

  The thin line of hope, the key

  To the universe.

  "Twenty minutes under a blanket with a blonde;

  A few giggles, the slide of fingertips," I asked.

  "I anoint you king of the planet," he said

  Dribbling 5w20 onto my ears

  You are masher of your soul

  The chaplain of your feet."

  "The back seat," I suggested, wrestling with

  Zippers, her leg over the headrest

  Our breaths fogging the windows."

  "You are meant," he said, churning moons

  "To distract the saints, not to rapture bimbos."

  "I can do both, in sequence. I know I can." But

  He was gone, leaving only a silver bullet

  And a crown of blackbird feathers

  Drifting on that endless river.

  *

  What Medicine Do I Need? [Blossom]

  this morning I could not get warm

  though I turned up the furnace

  and wore a coat in the house

  then I dug up the herb garden

  sat on the porch, pretended I heard

  a car door slamming

  I'm no doctor: you tell me.

  ****

  Chapter 18: What is the Meaning of Snow Accumulating on the Pavement?

  "There is," said Alf, "something in the heart of the average Canadian that doesn't like snow." He swirled his glass of beer, added some salt to it from the shaker, and drank. "God knows, we're supposed to. God knows, so few of us actually do."

  "You think so?" Blossom didn't really seem to care.

  "I think so. I think we are forever strangers in this landscape, shadow-boxing the snowflakes, watching them fill old iron pots with ghosts."

  "You men. Snow is always the end of the year to you. Have you ever thought maybe it's the beginning. Like a blank page somebody is going to write on?"

  "Let's see your poem. I bet you see snow as endings, too."

  "In a moment."

  "There are other ways to look at snow," Lollie offered.

  "Like what?"

  "It covers things. It has a sense of purity."

  "It's a shroud. A great awful cold damn shroud. What do you think?" He cracked his knuckles and looked at Cal.

  "I think maybe you should buy the brightest blue scarf you can, and the brightest blue earmuffs, and a matching set of wool mitts, and don't worry if people wonder about your sexual orientation, you should wear them out in every snowstorm, till you become the saint of Station Street and people smile when you come by."

  "That won't change the truth."

  "The truth is amazingly malleable, you know. And you're going to die anyway; why not be martyred for the cause?"

  Alf looked appealingly at Lollie.

  "I'm with him," she said. "I like to sit inside, my hands around a cup of coffee, a good book in front of me, and watch the snow fall."

  "If," Alf said, "it falls gently. If it falls in big clumps. Not if it howls around the buildings like it's looking for you."

  "Especially," said Lollie, "if I think it's come looking for me."

  *

  What is the Meaning of Snow Accumulating on the Pavement? [Calhoun]

  Bless the poor in spirit

  Who have nothing to look forward to but

  Snow

  And the cold stares of strangers

  I walked till my feet were sore knowing

  That I could only walk to China

  Before I ran out of room

  And had to start back home

  It snows in China, too

  There was nothing to go home to

  So I went home

  Sat in a chair by the window

  Drank milk, and watched snow

  Drift by the streetlight

  Strangers shuffle by, leaving

  A bit of pain.

  When I was warm again, I put my coat on

  And went outside

  Looking for the cold blessing

  Of snow, of strangers.

  *

  What is the Meaning of Snow Accumulating on the Pavement? [Lollie]

  When the warmth has finally gone

  The world becomes ripe with possibility

  There are pubs with beer and guitars

  Preserved pears, and

  New cookies

  When you see frost flowers

  Look outside

  All the shadows

  Have vanished in

  Steady flakes

  If you are a writer, your words on paper

  Are your footprints on

  The snow-covered pavement

  Leading into the arctic fog

  Look again, writer

  There are always bear paw prints

  On top of yours

  *

  What is the Meaning of Snow Accumulating on the Pavement? [Alf]

  To everything, there is a season

  A time to be born

  A time to think about seasons

  A time to cry.

  *

  What is the Meaning of Snow Accumulating on the Pavement? [Blossom]

  there is a strange quiet beauty

  to an ending

  there's Sinatra on the fm station

  I have a pumpkin pie, all to myself

  out there, god pulls a fine white cloth

  over yesterday

  ****

  Chapter 19: How Can I Become Rich?

  "We are rich," Alf said. "We have a whole universe around us, and the sun above and the beauty of the robins on the lawns in the mornings." He spread his arms expansively.

  "I guess I can stop buying lottery tickets," Blossom observed, sucking another Diet Pepsi dry. "I'll try paying for this drink with maple leaves."

  "I think," Cal said, quietly, "that wealth is relative." The others raised their eyebrows. Lollie looked over the tops of her glasses. "I mean," he added, shuffling uncomfortably in his chair," that wealth is mostly in our minds."
>
  "Great," said Blossom. "I'll see if the bartender will take a happy thought as payment for a beer for you. If I can find one."

  "Depressed?" Cal asked her.

  "I just think you're full of shit, as usual."

  Cal smiled, but Blossom went on. "I actually like your poetry. I've got your 'Why is Water' tacked to my fridge door. But I think you're a fraud most of the time. I know happy poor people, but I'm not one of them. I'm a pissed-off, down and depressed, angry at the universe poor person."

  "You think money would solve your problems?" Alf shuffled his long body in his chair and took a big drink of beer.

  "You know," Blossom leaned fiercely over the table at him. " I don't think it would solve all my problems, but it would certainly make a dent in a hell of a lot of them."

  Lollie raised her glass over the middle of the table. "To wealth, especially in large dollar amounts." The others hesitated, then followed in the toast.

  Lollie looked at Alf, then Cal. "I thought you two liked less tangible forms of wealth."

  "We lied." Alf smiled.

  "Damn right." Cal waved at the bartender for another beer. "We're poets, after all."

  Lollie laughed, for the first time in weeks. "Poetry is bullshit?"

  "Look at the poems we brought today," Alf said. "A few of us, I think, are, ah, being a little, shall I say, narrow in our definition of 'rich.'"

  "Nonsense," said Lollie. "Three of the poems will be perfectly accurate if we just add 'and pick six good numbers for next week's lottery' to the bottom of the page."

  *

  How Can I Become Rich? [Alf]

  We came to the sunlight

  Lay down in the snow

  Chafed in love

  The pine tree above

  Whispered all we should know

  You showed me the warm

  Deep in the flakes

  Fire in my lungs

  I was speaking in tongues

  God knows, that's what it takes

  And there in the sunshine

  In immaculate snow

  I learned in the field

  Calmly to yield

  To fire, to secrets, to flow

  To sunlight and

  Immaculate snow.

  *

  How Can I Become Rich? [Blossom]

  the sound of returning geese high overhead

  the April rains that call tulips from cold earth

  a kitten, almost too young for love, in my warm hand.

  *

  How Can I Become Rich? [Calhoun]

  In the crystalline minutes before midnight