Two Poems
Image by Bryan Castille. © 2024 River Styx Magazine.
To the Nosebleeds
I’m going to have a cigarette before we start.
So anyhow the place was chock full of these saintly rugby players that had all been shipped over from England for some big game, that got canceled on account of drought. And
No, this was Scotland County, below Laurinburg. The little club above the P.O. That’s right.
Okay, a little bit to the left. Can you raise it up a little? Ahem. I’ll just start off by saying . . . What? Can’t . . . you can’t hear me? Well, is this . . . Oh. Yes, I see. Well, HOW’S THIS? YEAH? ALRIGHT, FINE. WELL, I’LL START OVER.
TONIGHT, I’M GOING TO GIVE A LECTURE ON THE GARGLE IN IMAGIST POETICS, GIVE A FEW EXAMPLES OF GARGLES AND WE’LL TALK ABOUT IT FOR A WHILE.
I’D LIKE TO BEGIN BY GIVING SEVERAL EXAMPLES OF WHAT THE GARGLE IS NOT, WHICH MAY GRADUALLY BY ELIMINATION LEAD US TO THAT EVER-EVASIVE, FLEETING THING WHICH IS A DEFINITION OF THE TERM. AT THE VERY BEST, I SUSPECT WE WILL ARRIVE AT LEAST WITHIN SPITTING DISTANCE OF THE GARGLE IF WE DO NOT IN FACT ARRIVE AT THE THING ITSELF.
THE GARGLE IS NOT A FORM OF SELF EXPRESSION NOR IS IT AN ATTEMPT TO COMMUNICATE WITH SO-CALLED EXTRATERRESTRIALS REGARDLESS OF WHETHER THEY SAY SO. IT IS NOT A RADIO PROGRAM OR A PUBLIC HEALTH ANNOUNCEMENT. THE GARGLE CANNOT BE TRANSMITTED OR RECEIVED VIA RADIO TRANSMITTER, RADIO ANTENNA, ENCEPHALOGRAM, OR BRAIN WAVE. ITS POINT OF ORIGIN IS NOT THE KINGDOM ANIMALIA NOR IS IT THE AMERICAN POSTAL SERVICE, THE INTERSTATE COMMERCE COMMISSION OR THAT SPECIALIZED MONOPOLISTIC ORGANISM KNOWN AS THE ROCKEFELLER. THE GARGLE IS NOT A SERIAL MAGAZINE ADVERTISEMENT, IT DOES NOT SOIL ITS KNEES WITHOUT THE BIDDING OF ITS ATTORNEY, AND IT DOES NOT ABIDE BY THE FISCAL CALENDAR YEAR.
THE GARGLE IS NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE FLICKER PRINCIPLE OR THE ORGONE ACCUMULATOR, ALTHOUGH IT DOES HAVE AN AFFINITY WITH WHAT AD MEN CALL THE GIMMICK, THE DARK HORSE, OR THE PRETTY LADY. WHAT DOES ALL THIS HAVE TO DO WITH THE PRICE OF TEA? WELL I’M SURE I DON’T KNOW.
LET’S MOVE ON TO A FEW EXAMPLES.
WHEN THE FELLA SAYS TO GARBO, “MADAME, THIS IS A RESTAURANT, NOT A MEADOW,” THAT’S A GARGLE.
WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED THAT THE PILE OF MUSH OCCUPYING A PARISIAN RAILWAY TUNNEL WAS THE LATE CATULLE MENDES, THE NOTED FRENCH POET AND DRAMATIST, THAT WAS A GARGLE.
WHEN SATCHMO SANG, “SCHAEFFER IS THE ONE BEER TO HAVE, WHEN YOU’RE HAVING MORE THAN ONE,” THAT WAS A GARGLE.
WHEN THE NEWSCASTER SAID, “NURSE ELISE BACHMANN, WHOSE DAY OFF WAS YESTERDAY, PUT ON A PUBLIC DISPLAY OF INSANITY YESTERDAY MORNING,” THEN, AFTER A BRIEF COMMERCIAL INTERLUDE, SAID, “A CERTAIN MADWOMAN ARRESTED DOWNTOWN IS FALSELY CLAIMING TO BE NURSE ELISE BACHMANN. THE LATTER IS PERFECTLY SANE,” THOSE WERE BOTH GARGLES.
WHEN A GUY WALKS INTO A BAR, THEN ANOTHER GUY WALKS INTO THE BAR AND SLUGS HIM, AND THE BARTEND TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE AND SAYS, “THE LOVE IMPULSE IN MEN IS FREQUENTLY REVEALED IN TERMS OF CONFLICT,” THAT’S A GARGLE.
WHEN IKE SAID “I HAVE NO OBJECTION TO THE TWIST AS SUCH, BUT IF YOU DON’T DO IT, YOU’RE CONSIDERED OUT. I DON’T KNOW OF ANYONE THAT DOESN’T DO IT AT THE MOMENT,”
THAT WAS NOT A GARGLE.
WE MUST BE VERY CAREFUL NOT TO PASS OFF A NON-GARGLE AS A GARGLE. THIS WOULD QUITE POSSIBLY HAVE DISASTROUS AESTHETIC CONSEQUENCES, NOT TO MENTION IT WOULD MAKE ME SICK.
NOW, ALL OF THESE ARE PERFECTLY USEFUL, REASONABLE EXPLANATIONS. STILL, I PREFER MORE THE UNKNOWN. A STOLID, DOG-LIKE BLACKNESS.
IF THE POET STARTS STEERING THE POEM HIMSELF HE’S LOST.
OR ELSE HE PULLS OUT HIS BOY SCOUT COMPASS AND SETS COURSE FOR THE NEAREST BAR . . .
Pheasant Under Glass
The clear hills of a farm viewed through
a keyhole
A trick of the moon in the canopy that
brings to mind
the precision of faucets and photographs
of street cars
An empty basket in the doorway with
a note that says
Please take care of Junior. He likes
roman à clefs
In the tiny reflection of myself I can see
van Eyck lining up
his concave mirror against the chandelier
which hangs above his sitter
I would be honored if your Grace sat for me
as St. Augustine
The day unwinds in its silken pajamas
Shadows run off
to play in the street. The tea is stone cold
Why must the night descend so quickly
as if tumbling
down a ramp slicked with chicken stock
Quite unlike the soul, which does not
descend com
pletely but gets hung up contemplating
Another double hull for knocking around
the coast
or a new bird dog? At just $100 a pound
why not both?
From a hillside in the old country a herd
of cattle
are swishing their tails
Who does he think he is, standing on
our dinner?
Then, as if on a lark, they all went sliding by
in one clean row
like so many highway signs, down the road
from a regional gas station
superstore
It
You’re practically on top of it!
Just five miles away!
Almost there!
But here the image becomes clouded
and suddenly
I became aware that I was breathing
quite heavily
on the neck of the guy in front of me
Who suddenly turned and with great
precision said
My wife thinks I’m in Paris. Paris, Texas
that is.
Harris Wheless is a writer from North Carolina and an MFA candidate in the University of Iowa’s Nonfiction Writing Program. His work has appeared in Bright Wall/Dark Room, NPR Music, the Oxford American, Pato Journal, and elsewhere.