As a long-striving poet of mediocre verse, I read poetry regularly – every day, if I can – to improve my ear, if not my brain. For the last 15 or 20 years, however – and with a few notable exceptions – I’ve been disappointed with the quality of American verse. It often strikes me as calculated and self-conscious. More clever than true. Recently, however, I’ve been seeing a new style of poetry emerging – one that feels more honest and stronger. I haven’t a name for it yet, but it is more informed by Charles Bukowski than TS Eliot. (Not that there’s anything wrong with Eliot). I hope you can get a sense of what I mean with this poem by Hayden Carruth, which captures one of those rare moments when we know we are perfect.
Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey
By Hayden Carruth
Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren’t we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick, and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don’t say a word,
don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t
understand, they couldn’t, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.
