Long Bedford Poems
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AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
From on high to the crowded corners
of the world's temples, castles, cathedrals
From frescoes by the hands of grand masters
or sculpted alongside leering gargoyles
cherubs look down from heavenly perches
Many myths abound about cherubs -
they direct desires, prompt passions,
hours to cherubs are lifetimes to us
When believers hear a bell rings
an angel has gotten its wings
Riding cumulus clouds in an aqua sky
Vaulting lightning bolts to earth
Shooting arrows into human hearts
Coyly cowering in naves, abiding deities' demands
Making mellow music, fulfilling dreams denied
When 12th century Gothic sculptors crafted
church cherubs, adoring peasants marveled at
how the honored the Eden Garden fable
By divine right they played their ancient antics
One 15th century cherub mused that
when Raphael painted him, it was
intended that his infantile face
would portray pure sanctifying grace
In 1946, George Bailey of Bedford Falls
had planned his own suicide
Angel Second Class Clarence
was charged with saving him -
after 293 years of wistful waiting,
Clarence would finally get his wings
The godly greet the "Power of Myth",
they know that "...the bell tolls for thee" -
pray, "Appeal to our better angels"
There are no wings for us mere mortals
Only believers hear those bells ring
So, in the vast domain of spirits and angels,
does it seem trivial to be concerned
whether or not a cherub has wings or not,
in the face of this world's "Pandemonium"?
Listen for the bell
I spent the morn by Mom's hospital bed
Looked on my phone, found Merestead
An estate where you can see the land unfold
My brother took the shift, help like gold.
I unlocked my bike from a pole near the E.R.
I cycled slow, but it felt like far.
Got to Bedford Road, shoulder eroded beneath
Cars whizzed by, I gritted my teeth.
(Chorus)
People smile on the road, but your heart's like a stone
You think of the pain you feel alone.
And the road rolls on when you can't cry.
Feel the green of the earth and the cloudless sky
There’s a peace you find when you let things be
But it's doesn't last, and it's not free.
Turned on Byram Lake road, now it got nice
Green leaves sparkled, clear air added spice.
Passed a locked gate, looked back after a mile
hillside like a savannah, I had to smile.
Road went by the lake, I stopped for the view
Dirt road around, then climbed to route 22.
After some miles crossed a dam of chiseled stone
phoned my brother at the hospital, he said "go home!"
Mom is wasting away, for too long she wouldn't eat
Her attitude is that old age won, she wants to admit defeat
My heart is sick when I put myself in her stead
But I'm glad I had the time to go by Merestead.
(outro)
Yes, I’m grateful that I took that ride
I thought of Mom's life, much to take pride.
And the world stood still for me long enough
To face going back… and the harder stuff.
Kathy Boudin thought the U.S. beyond repair,
She thought she saw the deep reality, and it was unfair.
From SDS to the Weather Underground,
She dived deep in Marxism, plain sense no longer found.
A bomb went off, unintended, by chance,
Meant to shatter lives at a soldier's dance.
Kathy didn't learn from that gory scene,
She fled intact, still in the radical dream.
She tasted deeply of the bitter cup,
When stopped by cops, she gave herself up.
But behind her guns took two cops away,
In Bedford prison for years, her price to pay
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
A model prisoner, sorry but still red
After decades released, but her victims just as dead
Then hired at a university of high renown
Or was Columbia just a facade, already going down
A contrast was Yeonmi Park, a source of light
She escaped North Korea one frozen night
Walked across the Gobi Desert, a long, hard trek
Got mercy when she held a knife to her neck
Columbia told Yeonmi patriarchy to blame,
To censor her voice or join in their victim game.
Echos of a homeland that brooked no debate
Both places she observed anti-American hate
In North Korea you had to obey
In the U.S. students would throw their rights away
North Korea's great leader, a feudal regression
But U.S. Students had illusions of oppression.
[chorus]
You say you're for right, end up for the reverse
The end of the road is a funeral hearse
The road to hell is paved with ideals,
Know thyself, its honesty that heals
Boudin thought it moral to join the B.L.A
A Black Army who claimed crime was OK
She thought it was not for her to ask why
Trust the oppressed, her self-erasing lie.
At the Hamas protests, a leftist describes
Students manic, electric dazed look in their eyes
Who, do you think, more worthy of respect
Yeonmi, Kathy, which one ultimately correct?
Which way will those students go
Will they relearn what the rest of us know?
Must they repeat Boudin's trail of fear
Is there any intelligent life down here?
Carry me to my home Virginia
Headed south through Arlington
We can stop off in Manassas
On our way to Lovingston
Take me back to the Peaks of Otter
Let's return to Mabry Mill
We can drive the Blue Ridge Parkway
From the Meadows of Dan to Charlottesville
We'll stop in Schuyler on the way to Richmond
Watch the trees on the mountain sway
Ride the backroads of Campbell County
And see the small towns along the way
We'll raise some cane out in Bedford
In a field over near the county line
Ride the rails to Appomattox
And stop by Mama's at suppertime
We'll go cruise down the Eastern Shoreline
We'll lay a blanket out on the sand
Watch the ships sail out of Norfolk
And stroll down the beach hand in hand
Let's return back to our hometown
We'll float down the mighty river James
There we remember our favorite memories
And visit with old friends at a cafe on Main
Carry me back to little old Lynchburg
No matter how far I may roam
It's where I made my fondest memories
I'm proud to call Virginia my home
The Monuments
Have you the strength to spear a spine, and will you ladle blood pudding into the Battle Queen’s bosom, under contract that ye shall taste sudden death, and then feast with the gods, not terribly mamed, nor returned to pander for P’sy in the proximity of pathetic peasants?
It was their use of technology which over ran you. They merely hid behind their gods.
Weapons of war become ancient, but recidivism of rogues replenishes rage.
Your kid comes home with a year book, bearing a William Bedford page.
If Bedford were alive, he’d be chopping your kid’s heads off, not signing their yearbooks.
I sat on the rocks
By the New Bedford docks
And waited for his boat to return
But the sun went to hiding
Bringing ever bad tidings
And a sea where last lessons are learned
My time spent in vain
For not even a plane
Could find a boat headed out of that storm
As the sea roiled upward
My hopes were dragged under
Which my soul was to curse and then scorn
And the streets emptied out
Churches packed and devout
As the old ones did swear and rebuke
The women all cried
With new legends reprised
As the Parson read words in tribute
Till at the church by the dock
From whence he had left
From its window I yelled through the tears…
“Look to the harbor this night,
the mourning over, I sight:
—My Daddy’s Gaff Schooner is here”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
I’ve strolled down Bedford from Barrow,
maybe a couple times or more.
When I would get to 86,
I headed through the garden door.
I felt inspiration flowing,
from the rafters down to the floor.
Words for future generations,
by the authors that I adore.
They sat on these stools by the bar,
and drank their whiskey from this glass.
They saw the world through this window,
and watched it gently slide on past.
The true spirit of literature,
hangs in every sip I take.
I try to honor their presence,
in each single line that I make.
So, here’s to you Chumley’s Tavern,
drink a toast to your ancient past.
But alas, just like all good things,
you have come to your end at last.
Steinbeck and Millay may live forever,
through eloquent words that they wrote.
But as for you and me dear friend,
we’ll just be history’s footnote.
With childhood eyes, reflecting
Clear mountain day, remembering
Fresh cut hay, reviving
Together we’d play, etching
Memories never to be forgotten
The morning crisp, awakening
Aromas hint, of baking
Small morning eyes, awaiting
The wrinkled chef, creating
The delicacies of home-made art
Calloused hands, observing
A rugged land, preserving
Unwilling souls, still learning
Dust and heat for hours, shaping
Young men soon to face the world
Cool mountain shadow, approaching
The weathered rancher, nodding
Nightly ventures, seeking
The crystal streams, providing
All a boy could ever want
The dinner table, calling
The cold night gently, falling
The glow from window, beaming
Through which family is seen, praying
Thanking God for what He’s given
The warm fire softly, crackling
The elder folk, chatting
While childhood eyes slip, drifting
Off to pleasant dreams, forever
Calling my heart back home to Bedford
Tall as they come, this man is 1 metre 85,
A basketball player inspired by the 2012s,
To compete in disability sport so to thrive,
At the high jump, his practice bookshelves.
Loughborough students encouraged him,
To work on his basketball leaps by trying,
To high jump. He was so taken, no whim,
With the London Paras, he was pertaining,
That he became a T44 athlete for team GB,
To qualify with PB of 2.06 at Bedford in May;
2013 also saw him in the IPC, Lyon to see,
Where he took silver, loosing to Poland, ok.
2014 IPC Europeans in Swansea, Wales,
And he got another PB with 2.15m, a WR,
Which would’ve won gold in London sails,
But he had to accept silver, Poland did bar.
Jonathan lives in Reading at the age of 28,
But was born in Colchester well fine, fair,
With a clubbed foot, a week right knee fate,
And muscular imbalance thru his body, lair.