Seven Poems by John Yamrus

 

it was

 

over  

50 years ago,  

and i was doing an open mic  

 

with the local literary group,  

 

and  

they were all  

very serious and artsy  

 

and their poems  

were precious and hammered at  

 

and careful  

 

as were  

their clothes and  

the way they walked and talked  

 

and as  

far as i can tell  

it was the same sad crowd, 

 

week after week,  

reading the  same sad poems  

 

over and over again, 

 

when  

in walks me  

with my long-hair'd,  

beautiful future wife and a guitar player.  

 

it felt like  

everyone turned around  

to see who this new guy was,  

 

and the guy  

up on the stage  

stopped what he was doing, 

 

and with a  

pretty good ad lib  

he looked at us and looked  

at his partisan crowd and said: 

 

look who  

just walked in... 

Peter, Paul and Mary!  

 

that  

was funny... 

 

but  

it stung  

and it stuck  

and it taught me  

something that i learned  

right then and there and never forgot.  

 

that was  

more than 50 years ago, 

 

and  

as far  

as i can tell,  

i'm still the only  

one still on the scene,  

 

still doing the deed. 

 

and to  

quote Terry Malloy 

in ON THE WATERFRONT,  

 

all they ever got  

was “a one way ticket to Palookaville.”

 

he said: 

 

if only  

it wasn’t all  

a struggle to make ends meet. 

 

i wish  

there was just  

one day when i didn’t  

have to worry about bills or  

my job or how i'm gonna get thru  

 

the next couple weeks.  

 

i looked at him.  

 

he was young.  

 

he  

didn’t know  

that things like that never end.  

 

they never  

completely go away.  

 

they’re  

always there.  

 

hiding.  

 

and the secret  

to it all  

 

is to go  

and make a life around them.

Bukowski’s property 

 

this poem 

isn’t mine these 

thoughts aren’t 

mine these 

sentences aren’t 

mine these 

cadences 

aren’t  

mine 

these 

lines aren’t 

mine. 

nothing 

i do 

or think 

or write 

is mine. 

it’s all 

filtered down 

through you 

Mr. Bukowski... 

and i wish 

you’d 

come here 

and 

take it 

back. 

 

 

 

Gwen said 

  

her name meant 

face of god, 

 

or something like that. 

 

i don’t know 

where or how 

she got that idea, 

 

but she stuck with it, 

 

right 

to the end, 

 

right up 

to the time 

when she went 

face to face with a guy 

 

who swore 

his name 

meant: 

 

he who devours 

ham on rye. 

 

 

 

i've been shit on... 

 

this time 

by a  

bird  

whose aim 

was more direct, 

on target 

and effective 

than any of  

the critics 

who  

dislike me, 

my poems, 

my attitude, 

my way of writing  

or 

just  

my way of  

seeing things. 

 

in 

fact, 

this bird 

should write  

a book 

and call it: 

 

“John Yamrus is in my sights...lean,  

mean and as i see him”... 

 

it’s 

a little long 

for the title of a book, 

 

but,  

then, 

this was  

 

one  

hell of a bird. 

 

 

 

the apartment 

 

had 

no heat, 

no hot water 

and no back door. 

 

to  

make it  

interesting 

two strippers 

lived upstairs, 

 

the problem was 

they were nice girls. 

 

broke,  

just like us. 

 

we ate 

boiled noodles 

 

and 

very little else. 

 

the  

poems 

came hard. 

 

 

 

“think of this 

 

as just  

another part of your job”, 

she said, as she 

arranged the lights  

around me... 

and my shirt... 

she took great care 

to make sure 

the shirt 

was looking just right. 

 

“if we don’t  

make you look good, 

we don’t 

get the posters up, 

and if we don’t 

get the posters up, 

nobody shows, and 

the whole thing’s  

a great big waste of time.  this is 

just another part of  

your job.” 

 

god, 

right then and there 

i hated my job. 

 

i wished to hell 

i was back there,  

in my room, 

with the shades pulled  

tight  

and the 

tv on.   

 

this job was  

something i never wanted. 

 

the only job  

i ever really 

needed... 

 

that made 

any kind of sense... 

 

was  

this room, 

 

these  

poems, 

 

and 

you.

John Yamrus - In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 39 books. He has also had more than 3,500 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world. A number of his books and poems are taught in college and university courses. He is widely considered to be a master of minimalism and the neo-noir in modern poetry. His two most recent books are the memoir THE STREET and a volume of poetry called PEOPLE (AND OTHER BAD IDEAS). In addition, 3 of his books have been published in translation.