[Michael Cantor]

So many of us have appeared in Light - dozens, probably scores - that I thought it might create a a good tribute thread to John Mella if each of us posted one favorite poem of theirs that was originally published in Light - it should create one fine issue!

I feel uncomfortable starting this, but somebody has to. And if the sense is that it's not a good idea (as long as we keep to one poem per member, I don't personally feel uncomfortable), the Mods can feel free to erase this. I'll post mine below.

[Michael Cantor]

Back Then What I Dreamed Of Was…

To be a great light-heavyweight
like Archie Moore, who I once saw
defend his crown in ’58
by climbing back up off the floor

to kayo wild Yvon Durelle -
a kid who had no form or grace,
just came out swinging from the bell -
dropped Ancient Archie on his face,

three times in three quick minutes, but
each time the champ rose to his feet,
pawed out a left, tucked in his gut,
and fought a staggering retreat.

Now suddenly undignified
at forty-four, a stumble-bum,
Moore shook his head - his skill and pride
became the night’s curriculum -

Durelle charged, roaring, lunged and chased,
displaced the air with artless rage,
and when he missed was sharply laced
with twisting jabs, and learned a page

or two about how aging kings
do not give thrones up readily;
and how, when jolted in the ring’s
familiar bounds, they steadily

regain their rhythm, and in time,
ta-TUM, ta-TUM, augment the jabs
with combos that make both ears chime.
Round six - it’s now Durelle who grabs,

his head spun by a TUM-ta-TUM,
and stares bewildered, broken-nosed,
out at the Forum crowd; two dumb,
dead eyes, a piece of meat, transposed

from joy to pain by unseen blows
that punctuate the snot-choked fate
which vengeful gods mete out to those
who dare to disrespect the great.

Round ten – a crowd of Archie Moores
surrounds and stabs the wounded beast –
dark, turning, gleaming matadors
prepared to consummate a feast –

then one, on measured, careful feet
sets up the waiting prey until
he feints a hook, delays one beat –
TUM-ta-ta-TUM-ta-TUM - the kill

in round eleven cruelly sends
to those, like me, who live with dreams,
a bloodied envoy out to state
that dreams are not the same as ends,
and that it’s tougher than it seems
to be a great light heavyweight.


(Appeared in the Spring/Summer 2004 issue. I selected this one because it is not a typical "Light" poem - but John saw something in it.)

[W.F. Lantry]

Michael,

This seems like a lovely idea. Wish I had one to post. Bless you for starting this!

Best,

Bill
(P.S. you may not know that Archie Moore hung out in San Diego... he was a legend in my hometown when I was growing up...

[David Anthony]

That's a fine poem, Michael. I hadn't seen it before.
It seems to me a tough thing to be a great light heavyweight, and there's lots of things I'd do before taking up that particular profession.
Here's one of my contributions to Light Quarterly:


Cushioning the Blow


We thought it best to leave the cat with Ted
along with Grandma, when we went away.
No sooner were we home from holiday
than, bluntly, he announced the cat was dead.

“Listen!” I said. “Bad news is better told
Obliquely — like this: ‘Bess went climbing on
the roof and fell. Her legs and back were gone.
They tried to save her but she was too old.’ ”

Ted — who’s direct but not a thoughtless man —
was chastened (so he said) and mortified.
“Don’t worry, Cousin Edward,” I replied,
“we all drop clangers. By the way, how’s Gran?”

“Not great,” he said. “In fact, to tell the truth,
last night she went out climbing on the roof…”

[Jayne Osborn]

Feeling just a teensy-weensy bit envious as I can't post one, but this thread is a wonderful idea and I can't wait to see some more great poems like these two.

Jayne

[John Beaton]

Good idea, Michael. Here's one.

Angus And Morag

They were playmates together, as teenagers, lovers,
yes Angus and Morag were matched from the start
in that rare combination where first love discovers
a lifetime of joy: hand in hand, heart to heart.

So they entered their sixties in relative bliss
but despite constant trying, were barren—no child;
in their near-perfect lives this one thing was amiss
then old Morag got pregnant. The village went wild.

Some never believed it until she had swelled
and some would still doubt till her labour was through
so Angus, proud father, said as he upheld
his new daughter, “Just wait till they hear about you.”

Then Morag, the practical one of the twosome,
said “Angus, it’s not in our nature to boast,
but just once in a lifetime... tomorrow you’ll do some
newspaper announcing—the Highlander’s Post!”

The following night he came in looking guilty,
“So has the announcement been published today?”
He shambled across to the bed, slow and wilty,
“So out with it, Angus! Which cow went astray?”

"It was awful expensive—a hellish high cost—
over three thousand pounds was the price I'd to pay!"
"Over three thousand pounds! Why, Angus, that's most
of the money we’ve saved—what on earth did you say?"

"They flummoxed me, Morag. My brains went a-scatter;
I shouldn’t have told them—I’d carefully thought
it all out and I gave them the usual patter
and that was all fine... but... but then..." "But then what?"

"Why Morag they moved on to personal questions!"
"Those newspaper people—all gossip and ears!"
"I said when they asked me "How many insertions?"
"Och, five times a week for forty-five years.""

[Ed Shacklee]

This is a great idea.

As I've no poems to offer, I thought instead I would post some funny or intriguing -- or intriguingly funny -- titles from some of the back issues (available on their site, here).

These are from the Spring 2000 issue of Light:

'Que Sahara Sahara', by Edmund Conti
'Advice to a Miniature Painter', by G. N. Gabbard
'I Knew a Cappadocian', by A. E. Houseman
'In Praise of Hairy Faces', by Max Gutman
'Presidential Clerihew Confessions', by R. S. Gwynn
'The Peripatetic Peeper', by David Mason
'Lullaby by the Railroad Tracks', by A. E. Stallings
'A Slew of Sloughs', by Frank Taplin

Plus an appreciation of J. Patrick Lewis by X. J. Kennedy and a review of A. E. Stallings' Archaic Smile.

[Catherine Chandler]

In his February 8, 2011 acceptance letter to me, John wrote: "It was a pleasure to see the word "lemniscate" lift its lovely head after so many years in the shadows and mists of Pale Fire. With thanks for the generous sharing of your talent, John"

The poem subsequently appeared in Lines of Flight as, simply, ∞ .


Mapping Reality


He shakes his head, tsk-tsks at the trompe l’oeil,
unfazed by magic;
wrings his hands and utters Oy yoy yoy!
at fuzzy logic.

But when infinity falls in the mix
he’ll never risk it;
he holds his nose and raids his bag of tricks
for the lemniscate.




(First appeared in Light Quarterly, Nos. 70-71 Autumn-Winter 2010-2011 )

[Chris O'Carroll]

The magazine rejected my poems consistently for about a decade, then finally caved and published a couple in the Spring/Summer 2011 issue. (You don't suppose that's what did John in?) As we used to say in the funeral Masses at which I served in my long-ago altar boy days, let perpetual Light shine upon him.

If Girl

If you can keep your wit and charm at double
The quantity you see himself display,
And stifle your chagrin when he can’t trouble
To listen to those girlish things you say,
If you can cook a lavish gourmet dinner,
Then nibble it to keep your figure slim,
If, whether he is playing saint or sinner,
Your home is always paradise for him,

If you can be both duchess and sex bunny
Serene and gracious, yet va-va-va-voomy,
If you can laugh when his jokes aren’t that funny,
And never let him sense when you feel gloomy,
If you don’t pester him with your opinion,
But practice siren wiles to lure and haunt him,
If you are less a partner than a minion,
He’s yours for life. On those terms, do you want him?

[RCL]

Good idea, Michael. Here's my favorite of several in Light:
Spring-Summer, 2004

My First Game as a Running Back

In uniform, I’m feeling dread.
Our son’s not quite a man, he’d said.

I’d overheard him years ago:
Is this a phase that he’ll outgrow?

He never wants to run and play.
Mom said, He studies every day.

On the first play, my jock too tight,
I shift position to the right.

He’s far too conscious of his clothes.
Good god. He cooks, and sometimes sews.

The play’s a pass. My feet are light
and thread an opened seam, take flight.

You even let him study dance.
You want our boy to be a nance?

Dogged by defenders, I pirouette
and snag the ball. But laid out flat,

I crack two ribs. She’s full of joy
when Mom shouts out, Now that’s my boy!

I wonder why they think this grand,
and wish that I played in the band.

Dad toasts me with a Blatz beer can
before he bellows, You dah man!


Still nursing the bruises,
Ralph