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"HOMAGE TO GARBO"
by Carl Brennan
When Greta dies,
which must be fairly soon,
six seconds of silence will be observed
on the late show,
the network newsmen will narrate her wonder, add a few film clips,
some critical praises and a documentary will be in the works.
When Greta dies,
the grocery store magazines
will have her face on their covers.
The Secret Love Life, Tragedies, etc.
their probable captions.
And crates of her clothing, cigarette
cases, jewelry
will be auctioned off as relics
to insane millionaires.
When Greta dies,
a few ambulance orderlies
will have something to talk about.
A few contemporaries/hangers-on
will dress up in mourning.
The apartment that held her
will need a new tenant.
A statistic will subsume
the old woman herself.
When Greta dies,
Felicitas and Anna
will go on suffering
over and over again
with a dozen other selves:
the movements of a soul
(Her voice, her strange languor)
in a purgatory of hard luck,
learning passion.
"OLD MOVIES"
by Lyndia Glover
Old movies are made in black and white
But, there is magic in each and every one
Mystery, horror, comedy or musical
Each one is a priceless classic
Actors and actresses made the movies seem so real
The audience became a part of the silver screen
Each person lived the story, as they watched
Feelings expressed on the screen were felt by all
The old movies will never be duplicated
But will live forever in the hearts of their fans!
"IN MEMORIAM: JAMES DEAN
THE ILLUSION"
by Jimmy Skinner
When the short road ended after a long ride
you forget to stop and imagine your tomorrows.
Things are better now -- not because you're gone
but simply because you were in fact -- here.
Though the beauty and rebellion were short
what was memorized is now a memory,
and all the illusions with red jackets and jeans
now wear suits and drive the highway.
Silver spiders and long trips down the coast
give the impression of fantasy,
but real fantasy is only in the movies:
the ones not remade and without sequels.
An era ended when the journey grew quiet
and the adventure became a nightmare
that left the dreamers only with dreams
and the movies only reruns of timelessness.
No more trips with Jimmy Dean -- Jimmy Dean.
Forgotten Saturdays inside slumped in a seat
with the eyes enjoying what's being seen
and the imagination captured against reality.
"BOGART"
by L. E. Ward
somewhere there lives the city of Casablanca;
not the real one
but the place, the place where deals were made
and the man of conscience could win
at home in the gangster
still with a trace of the old-fashioned idealism
that could turn a
brigid o'shaughnessy in,
look at himself in the mirror
of the water, see a mexican bandit grinning
go down losing,
yet winning, and this on the modern boulevards
not like william s. hart,
tom mix, alan ladd as shane, gary cooper out west
in a time and place distant:
gable, cooper, powell, barrymore: forgotten
if not in name, in the guts
in the heart: the big, posthumous, total revival
last remembered as the
disillusioned, truthful movie director in
contessa in the rain, trenchcoat still: recalling
roman aphorism: fame comes too late for our ashes.
"THE HAS-BEEN"
by L. E. Ward
the car-hops, the waitresses:
only one in ten thousand make it
but worst of all, perhaps,
is to have been, and to be no more
to feel the cat at one's guts
when no one stops, phones, any more
this is the most terrible, terrible truth
and part of the legend:
when the crowds have gone;
when one is left alone.
they say they asked for it:
of course they asked for it
the decision is to be no one
or a someone who is everyone
to be everyone's property,
the gossip on every telephone,
this is tawdriness perhaps
but the most terrible truth of it is:
when the crowds have gone;
when one is left alone.
"HOLLYWOOD"
by L. E. Ward
They speak of you now
as tawdry, overpopulated,
common, your former
stars dead, forgotten
hippies without shirts
with sandals, no shoes,
cruise where once stood
lana or grable or mae
west or bill fields, lex,
or handsome tyrone power
so it seems strange now
for what it seems . . .
still it is the florence,
venice, mecca, movies built
in each passing stranger's
head are idols; dreams.
"THE ROAD TO . . .
HOLLYWOOD"
by L. E. Ward
for them it was the need, the desire,
to be someone else . . . themselves
for us it was to be them, too,
because of what we are not, what we are
the boredom, loneliness, poverty
exchanged for two hours of magic, gilt
the triumph of illusion:
the stars: ourselves, human beings
finding their life, their identity,
with us, not to mention their art;
and we to find in them
a common humanity, link to ourselves:
a common man, prince, king,
if handsome enough;
a beauty loved by the world,
if glamorous enough:
tells much that is true, sad,
even pathetic, banal, mortal, human:
and the lasting identity
in the cans of celluloid in the
museums, the factories,
wherever they are:
our florence, mecca,
venice, egypt, rome
the age of the common man:
his interest in himself
and in those certain selves -- of himself
he saw, he loved, he worshiped, "from afar."
