May 18, 2010
Maybe, just maybe, you live on a block of drinking poetry readers. If so, you’re lucky (and maybe sleepy, too, as poetry and drinking combined lead some to stay up all night). If not, or even (and maybe moreso) if so, then I want to let you know about the book that will change your life, and have you drinking and reading poems for days. The trick is (and this is how you can be a trendsetter, instead of a trend follower) that the book isn’t even out yet, but is pre-orderable, so you can be the first person you know to get it. It’s called In Their Cups: An Anthology of Poems About Drinking Places, Drinks, and Drinkers. I’d tell you about it in detail, but A: I edited it, so am bias’d, and B: I want to save some of my gushing for when it comes out proper, and C: the wonderful poet Richard Jackson already said this about it:
“Souls of poets dead and gone,” goes the line from Keats, but AJ Rathbun’s wonderful In Their Cups brings them back, at least for a few more drinks, and we too are invited in. And what company we enjoy: we can imagine classic poets as diverse as Catullus and Du Fu speaking to polar opposite modernists like Cesare Pavese and Appollinaire, perhaps interrupted here and there by diverse contemporary voices such as Mark Halliday and William Olsen. Rathbun has created a unique imaginary world here, adding a couple of his own fine poems to the conversation, where we can hear, with Richard Hugo, the “dusty jukebox crackling” on every page. This is a book you’ll want to raise a glass to.
Now, don’t be scared if you don’t cozy up with poets on an every day basis—you’re going to love it. I promise. Read it with drink in hand, and you’ll probably never put it down, until you fall down. Which is saying something.
PS: Want to see an actual poem that’s in the book to get you going? Check out here, and here.
May 15, 2010
Ohh, that title just makes me shudder: Death at the Bar. Perhaps the worst thing possible (well, okay, that’s a bit much—there are, in life, much worse things, but this is just a drinks blog, so give me some leeway), especially if it was a jolly evening. Which, in this book, by Ngaio Marsh (Ngaio is pronounced /ˈnaɪoʊ/ if you were wondering, and is a lady), isn’t 100% true, as the evening at the bar (a little English town bar called the Plume of Feathers. Which is fantastic, especially as it’s not a disco), is a tad contentious, with old fiesty relationships, and reds (in the commie way), and an arrogant lawyer, and more.
But it’s still a pretty good night (as the below quote points out, though it also has a bit of foreshadowing), until they decide to play darts. Because one of the characters is killed . . . by a dart. Or is he? You’ll have to read the darn book to find out, because I’m no spoiler.
Watchman had already taken three glasses of Treble Extra and, although sober, was willing to be less so. Parish, suddenly flamboyant, offered to bet Able a guinea that the brandy was not Courvoisier ’87, and on Abel shaking his head, said that if it was Courvoisier ’87, damn it, they’d kill a bottle of it there and then.
—Death at the Bar, Ngaio Marsh
May 11, 2010
Was sent the accompanying photo (which I’m hoping was from outside a bar–I mean, it has to be, right?) from pal Pat Jalbert-Levine, who is the wonderful person that ensures that my books from Harvard Common Press get done up right and make it to the printers on time (as well as about a million other things). It happened to be a long day at the salt mines when I got it, so it made my day hugely better (she’s both a geting-books-done superstar and a makes-the-day-better person. That’s a sweet combo). Here’s what she said about it (she sent it to me and boy PR genius Howard Stelzer, who loves himself some beer):
“I don’t know why this made me think of you. Oh wait, yes I do! I’m working on In Their Cups right now, and I know someone who’s a beer fanatic…! My mother forwards “joke emails” she gets from her family in France, and a recent one contained this picture. You’d have to know how the Lord’s Prayer goes in French to really get the cleverness, but anyway, here’s my attempt at a translation which would do it justice in English:”
Our beer who art in vats
Hallowed be thy foam
Let thy glass come
Let thy distribution be done
On the table as it is in the bar
Give us this day
Our daily hops
And forgive us our hangovers
As we forgive those
Who drink coca-cola
Lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from thirst
For thine are the bubbles, and aroma, and freshness
Now and forever
Amen
Isn’t that swell? I think so, and if you do, too, be sure to raise a toast to Pat next time you’re quaffing a cold one (and for that matter, raise a toast to Howie, as well, and to all the folks worldwide who are also, at the moment, drinking a beer. Now isn’t that nice to think about?).
April 16, 2010
This was originally published in the Spring 2010 Issue of the Khaos Apocrypher (a magazine you can sign up to receive, if you’re interested. Just email Dr. Gonzo, who I’m hoping doesn’t care that I’m putting this poem up here. But if he does, I’ll just buy him some gin. And, speaking of, I suggest sipping a gin cocktail while reading this. So, go shake or stir one up. Okay, you back? Let’s continue).
To Gin
It’s 10 am, and the word gin spills
out accompanied by a gentle twitch, Junipers communis
and I’m stuck in office chairs and prickly socks
distilled to only a toast: here’s to brisk bottles
and hosts, a soldiery row at ease waiting
for another vested soul to pull them down,
to start gin’s accented engine. Where to begin,
in my dream of gin? I’ll open with noon’s
luncheon sin, a Martini made on dry’s couth
side, winnowed twist, skip the olive, its briny mistake
like the sobering taste in your mouth
from a long-forgotten first date,
then I say amble into another kick in short pants,
a opaque smile designed for those desiring lack,
gin’s pocket compass, the Gimlet camped
in cocktail glass freshly limed, please, or take
it back and listen to me swear, thirsty.
And then there’s the way I lisp, like a trout,
after three Bronx in row, orange blessing
and fraternal vermouths, gin within and without
while I’ve lost another hour, now, absent gin’s zoo,
gin’s mill, gin’s soak, boots, piano, truth,
gin burn and gin singe, tingle and curaçao
blossoming into caraway and angelica root.
Give me the Rickey’s twentieth century sass,
bubble my black suspenders with Vespers nightly
losing sleep with Lillet before breakfast,
get me a big tray made from lime’s core, a White Lady
up on the chaise, Cointreau cornered
by gin and it’s 2 pm, somewhere eyeballs eye
Italians, gin’s Florentine mourner
wreathed in orange oil, bitter and red. But I
almost left the Campari out of the stanza
during my reverie of Negronis. I like mine up
but won’t turn gin away, even if tepid
I’ll take any highball, rocked and passed abruptly
across the room, a dimly lit gin sashay,
where the Last Word slips beneath sheets,
gin cuddling Marschino, Chartreuse, and lime swaying
into another ménage, making gray sky incomplete
unless someone, me, you, drinks them penitent
for what we will now receive: pass the gin, please,
echoes over cubes or neat, penitentiary
pleats or double strained, petticoated , and greased
with Angostura. The preference of ladies, Pink.
The gin, after three straight rounds, speaks:
Old Tom, London Dry, Hollands, Genever, Plymouth.
Thinking Englishly, I’ll be round in an hour, work
winks at shaker boys, undress cocktail waitresses
of cocktail napkins, blame gin, naturally,
and gin will soak it all in, knows it takes us places
we long to live within, from the Cornwall’s
coast to the furnace room under my Pierre St.
pied-à-terre where I tipped a bottle with soda
and a sliver of scotch (gin’s not afraid to meet
another as it turns the dark to stars), a comma
to New Orleans, Henry C. Ramos, and gin’s comfortable
motion, full conjunction between juices lime and lemon,
sugar, cream, egg, divine orange flower water,
an afternoon’s worth in one glass and time,
time, time, there’s never enough gin
or enough balance on my credit card, it’s not even
the end of the day, but I won’t delay gin’s hard choices
longer, a sip here and there like a bartender’s grin,
I’ve finally reached the bar and the words I’ve lingered
until five to hear–what’ll it be friend—
come without stopping. I breathe, unbend,
and say, finally, for me, make it gin.
