THE LIFE OF A DEAD POET, NORRIS BENKAMIN, AS RELATED BY HIS WIFE, NO. 5


Marietta, you have a pretty name,
You who have come to seek my late husband's papers,
Although I don't know why anyone would want them.
Marietta, I've heard that name some place before.

My husband hated my family gatherings.
It was my family, for he had no one.
I never took his hate seriously.

How could anyone take a man seriously
Who was always talking about Circe's caresses,
Or saying such absurd things as
"The living face and the mask are equivalents."

I know where I have heard the name before.
Was it in Korngold's Dead Cities. No,
Marietta was a name my husband
Called me in his sleep.
Of course my real is Edith.
A poet, as my husband called himself,
Would like such a name as Marietta.


But he was often confused,
Had not much grip on reality.

Yes, you have can his papers.
I'll be glad to get rid of the trash.

THE LIFE OF A DEAD POET, NORRIS BENJAMIN, AS RELATED BY HIS WIFE, NO. 6

Marietta, my husband's senses were always deranged,
He did not have to go to extremes like Rimbaud,
It came naturally to him.

Sometimes he would sit and babble to the dog
About the Psyche and Cupid Room at the Palazzo a Te.
I thought the room ought to destroyed.
Paint all those frescoes, paint in a crucified Christ.
You know he rarely talked to anyone but his dog.

At my family gatherings, he would embarrass me by saying
Such outrageous things as "My favorite girl is Salome,
For she had an obsessive sexual desire for old men."
I scolded him severely by talking that way in front of my family.

I could not understand his taste, for he loved Italy.
I could not understand how anyone could such a dirty and noisy land.
He annoyed me by always talking about his favorite towns:
Orvietto, Montepulciano, Soncino, Dossa,
Lucca, Tolfa, Nepi, Terni, Narni.
I went once with him. Could not wait until I got home.
Told him he could go alone.

Marietta, have you ever been to Italy.
You have,
You say, many times.

THE LIFE OF A DEAD POET, NORRIS BENAJMIN, AS RELATED BY HIS WIFE, NO. 7

We never had any children.
I always wanted one, I needed someone.

But as always he talked foolish,
Saying that bringing a human being into an overpopulated world
That was destroying all the beautiful natural things was an act of evil.

Excuse me, Marietta, I must take another pill,
The pain again.
But I'm much better now than I was when he was alive.
When he was alive, I was incapable of walking.
He would push me around in my wheelchair,
Pick up jacaranda blossoms, drop into my lap.
It seemed silly,
But, I suppose, poets are like that.

Strange, Marietta, on the day of his funeral
I stepped out of my wheelchair, could stand up and walk.

Marietta, why are there tears in your eyes?

Duane Locke

If you've any comments on this poem, Duane Locke would be pleased to hear from you.