Most read ▸
William Corbett
Drunkenness or doing what you're not supposed to
or not doing what you're supposed to.
Short of breath and sweaty.
Dense. A brain like glass nothing sticks
a mind's eye like glass
what I can't figure
the faint breath there
something passing or just passed.
In the morning no cigarette smoke inhaled
over toothpaste.
What full head What empty stomach What spotted hands.
Drunkenness and the street lights
spots on the walls
dim lights wavering up the stairs.
Several napkins crumpled
smeared with Chinese port sauce
but that was earlier
along the gutter
sickly yellow-green
ailanthus leaves fallen.
Lovely those people
who make no demands
not friend nor family
after all I never bicycled
through France in my late twenties
so never knew that sweet anticipation
of a life to come.
I staggered on through darkness,
There was a hazy sky, a few stars
Which I followed as best I could.
It was nine o’clock, I was trying to get home.
But somehow I was lost,
Though really keeping the road.
Then I reeled through a gate and into a yard,
And called at the top of my voice:
“Oh, Fiddler! Oh, Mr. Jones!”
(I thought it was his house and he would show me the way home. )
But who should step out but A. D. Blood,
In his night shirt, waving a stick of wood,
And roaring about the cursed saloons,
And the criminals they made?
“You drunken Oscar Hummel,” he said,
As I stood there weaving to and fro,
With wine or with faith, with love or with song,
Let me be drunken all my life long.
On hills of ecstasy, in troughs of pain,
Never more sober, never more sane.
For I lived too long in a den
Of sane and solemn men.
Each merciless as a beast.
And my spirit was their feast.
They sucked my soul from me
All for the sake of holy Uniformity.
I am drunk with the honey wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls.
The bats, the dormice, and the moles
Sleep in the walls or under the sward
Of the desolate castle yard;
And when 'tis spilt on the summer earth
Or its fumes arise among the dew,
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth,
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new!
GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light;
Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon,
And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun.
Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun fecht and fen’;
But here we’re a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.
Then gudewife, &c.
My coggie is a haly pool
That heals the wounds o’ care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton trout,
Love in a humor play'd the prodigal
And bade my Senses to a solemn feast;
Yet, more to grace the company withal,
Invites my Heart to be the chiefest guest.
No other drink would serve this glutton's turn
But precious tears distilling from mine eyne,
Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn,
Quaffing carouses in this costly wine;
Where, in his cups o'ercome with foul excess,
Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part,
And at the banquet in his drunkenness
Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest Heart.
A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see
What 'tis to keep a drunkard company.
With careful step to keep his balance up
He reels on warily along the street,
Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop
Mutters an angry look at all he meets.
Bumptious and vain and proud he shoulders up
And would be something if he knew but how;
To any man on earth he will not stoop
But cracks of work, of horses and of plough.
Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs,
He never heeds the insult loud that laughs:
With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,--
Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride.
And calls him "drunken beast" and runs away--
King to himself and fool to all beside.