"mckuen" poems
molly
the waitress
at Town diner
wants to be a model
or a nun,
tells me she's a poet
we're sitting on
a couch in her apartment.
molly takes a poem from
a foot high stack
on the end table,
hands me a poem,
"FIRST BRA," by Molly C.
it's about buying
her first bra at 12.
"i was big.
i needed a bra at 11,"
she smiles.
now
she doesn't wear bras.
she tells me
rod mckuen
is the most read
poet
in America.
"what about walt,
plath,
hughes?" i asked.
"no
no,"
she says,
"mckuen is the MOST
popular poet
in American history,
no,
really
the greatest American poet."
molly loves rod mckuen.
i love molly.
"if the public loves
rod mckuen,"
i tell her,
you've got a shot.
you could be the female version
of rod mckuen."
molly smiles
takes me by the hand
and leads
me up the stairs
to the loft.
she takes the ribbon
from her hair.
i lay her down
on the bed
and bang the hell
out of
the next
most read
American poet
Mar 28, 2023
Mar 28, 2023 at 2:25 PM UTC
If things ever got so
bad that our money became
virtually worthless, it might be
possible to use poetry as a
medium of exchange.
The better the poem, the
greater the value.
A Pablo Neruda or David Ignatow
would be worth something like fifty dollars,
whereas a Rod McKuen might buy you a
candy bar. Maybe.
Richard Brautigans would buy plenty, as well,
but make you question why you were
buying it at all.
A Bukowski poem
would be worth
thousands, but
looked upon as
foreign currency.
Of course, with the current rate of
inflation, one would need more and more Nerudas
and Ignatows just to get by, and eventually a loaf
of bread might cost as much as a short story.
To buy a car, one would need to come up with
two or three novels...good novels...a couple of
Haruki Murakamis.
It would take a wallet full of
Raymond Carver stories just to buy a
motorcycle.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
On my 74th Birthday
The eternal magic of eternal things
sends the dreamer out into the world
-Rod McKuen, “January 2”
I didn’t mean to be 74
That wasn’t part of my master plan
To be young forever, cooler each year
But suddenly I’ve become invisible
Once upon a time and long ago
I drove my old MG to California
A sleeping bag, a few books, a few poems
A portable typewriter, some portable dreams
I remember breaking down in Tucson
But best of all, I remember the dreams
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 9:04 AM UTC
Ode to Barnes & Noble
Patrick Leigh Fermor never roamed these aisles
Sir John Betjeman never rhymed these aisles
Graham Greene never despaired of these aisles
And Rod McKuen was never here alone
And anyway the two or three feet of poetry
Are hidden far away in the back behind
The puzzles, records, comics, and plastic toys
And solitaries plugged into their machines
But on a winter weekday a writer’s retreat -
A yellow pad, coffee, and a window seat
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
The manic pixie dream girl of my youth
Curving and tight, scampering along the beach
Her wild black hair flying about as she danced
Teasing all the boys with her sunlit joys
I read to her Rod McKuen by candlelight
While Joni Mitchell on the turntable mused
We played and smoked, and drank good screwcap wine
And played some more, and then she went away
And now - an old lady in a funeral home pew
And I’m not so sure of myself anymore
(“Manic pixie dream girl” is a neologism attributed to film critic Nathan Rubin)
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 3:05 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Macbeth, Doctor Zhivago, Captain Call, Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Allen Ginsberg, and Rod McKuen Visit the Dentist but Have to Wait for Beowulf's Root Canal
In gratitude for all the wonderful dentists, hygienists, and
technicians who keep us chewing!
Macbeth Visits the Dentist
Is this a drill which I see before me
The whirring drill outstretched to my teeth
O happiest gas! Come let me clutch thee!
Before my body I throw my dental shield
Dr. Zhivago Visits the Dentist
Poor dental hygiene is for crowds of mediocrities
Only individuals seek dentistry
And they shun those who tolerate bad teeth
How many things in the world deserve our loyalty?
A dentist whose papers are in order
Captain Call Visits the Dentist
Call saw that the dentist was looking at him
The nitrous oxide drained out of him
Leaving him feeling tired
“I hate a bad tooth. I won’t tolerate it.”
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Visits the Dentist
For a tooth to come out
Some of the pain must be devoted to Stalin
Soviet dentistry demanded happy endings
I knew I could floss and brush better than Mayakovsky
Bella’s teeth were second only to those of Akhmatova
Only I could make Babi Yar all about me and my teeth
When I saw a dentist in Zima Junction
I saw the truth of the Revolution in her little mirror
Allen Ginsberg Visits the Dentist
I saw the best teeth of my generation destroyed by sugared sodas and a failure to brush and floss
dragging themselves through the medical complex at dawn looking for a fix
thinning-hair old hipsters burning for relief from aching jaws at the healing hands of dedicated professionals among their shining instruments
dedicated professionals who did not drop out of the University of Arkansas and never saw Mohammedan angels among the rooftops
Rod McKuen Visits the Dentist
I am like a molar; I have chewed alone
Gnawed a hundred hamburgers
Never found a bone
Still and all I’m toothy
Reason is you see
Once in a while along the way
Dentists have been good to me.
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:23 AM UTC
A five-dollar garage-sale record player
A five-cent-piece Scotch-taped onto the arm
A plastic K-Mart special from long ago
A groovy thing for a junior high kid
But he was a thirty-something day-laborer
And in the silent cell of his solitude
Wanted to spin some tunes in the darkness
Just like he did when he was a junior high kid
A five-dollar garage-sale record player
Wagner, Sinatra, McKuen - and hope
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
Adventures with an Olivetti
(In which the scrivener violates his rule never to write in the first-person)
My bed was a Sears & Roebuck sleeping bag
And my world headquarters that old MG;
An Olivetti portable processed
My words, my fresh young words, that no one read
I owned more books than clothes, and only those few
That could be stowed in the passenger seat;
I fancied myself the new Rod McKuen
And I wasn’t - but I remember the road
When the world was new, adventures every day
And I miss that - but mattresses are nice
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
For Rod McKuen
The gentle singer of our youth has died
The poet of empty Sunday afternoons
And solitary strolls through Balboa Park
Among lovers and Frisbee-chasing dogs
Of laughing with shipmates while cleaning rifles
Because we knew more than the armorer
About dreaming away from learning war
About pretty girls laughing in the sun
And a chansonnier in sweater, sneaks, and jeans:
The gentle singer of our youth has died
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
Alexandria in a Seabag
The barracks is a university
So too the march, the camp, the line for chow
McKuen shares our ham and lima beans
John Steinbeck helps with cleaning guns and gear
(You’re not supposed to call your rifle a gun)
The Muses Nine are usually given a miss
But not Max Brand or Herman Wouk
Cowboys and hobbits and hippie poets
And a suspicious Russian or two
Tattered paperbacks jammed in our pockets:
All the world is our university
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
From 2015 - for Rod McKuen
The gentle singer of our youth has died
The poet of empty Sunday afternoons
And solitary strolls through Balboa Park
Among lovers and Frisbee-chasing dogs
Of laughing with shipmates while cleaning rifles
Because we knew more than the armorer
About dreaming away from learning war
About pretty girls laughing in the sun
And a chansonnier in sweater, sneaks, and jeans:
The gentle singer of our youth has died
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Rod McKuen at a Garage Sale
We don’t know who Baby ****** and Tommie were
They sent each other notes and underlines
And colored slips of paper from page to page
In Someone’s Shadow (“Hardbacks 25 Cents”)
The exuberance of adolescent arcs
Reminds us of our long-ago callow youth
When we thought we had discovered something
In secretly sharing free verse in home room
And we had – indulging in forbidden lines
Is still good therapy for being sixteen
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 9:20 AM UTC
Take a cup of Dickinson,
add a bit of Poe;
a pinch of Rod McKuen,
not too much you know...
A teaspoon full of Kipling,
a tablespoon of Frost;
stir it in the ***
so not much is lost.
A dash of Robert Service,
a dash of my friend, Shelly;
a little Tennyson,
is good for one man's belly.
For sadness, add Millay,
for humor, Ogden Nash;
for adventure, Masefield,
for D. Parker, something brash.
A recipe for poet's stew,
just simmer for an hour;
and relish the aroma,
of poetry and power.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play
Having withdrawn from the existential struggle,
Surrendering their arms and protest signs,
They muster in Denny’s for the Senior Special
Uniformed in knee-pants and baseball caps
And Chinese tees that read “World’s Greatest Grandpa,”
Hearing aids and trifocs at parade rest,
And quadrupedal aluminum sticks
Raging against the oxygen machine.
Not trusting anyone over ninety,
They rattle their coffee cups and dentures
Instead of suspicious Nixonians,
And demand pensions, not revolution.
They mourn classmates dead, not The Grateful Dead.
They do not burn their Medicare cards
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With their flaming conscription notices.
They no longer read McKuen or Tolkien
Or groove to the Mamas and the Papas;
Their beads and flowers are forever filed
In books of antique curiosities
Beside a butterfly collection shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where manifestos go to be eaten
By busy mice and slow-pulsing fungi.
As darkness falls they make the Wheel, not peace -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor Siddhartha, but only cable t.v.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play
Having withdrawn from the existential struggle,
Surrendering their arms and protest signs,
They muster in Denny’s for the Senior Special
Uniformed in knee-pants and baseball caps
And Chinese tees that read “World’s Greatest Grandpa,”
Hearing aids and trifocs at parade rest,
And quadrupedal aluminum sticks
Raging against the oxygen machine.
Not trusting anyone over ninety,
They rattle their coffee cups and dentures
Instead of suspicious Nixonians,
And demand pensions, not revolution.
They mourn classmates dead, not The Grateful Dead.
They do not burn their Medicare cards
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With their flaming conscription notices.
They no longer read McKuen or Tolkien
Or groove to the Mamas and the Papas;
Their beads and flowers are forever filed
In books of antique curiosities
Beside a butterfly collection shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where manifestos go to be eaten
By busy mice and slow-pulsing fungi.
As darkness falls they make the Wheel, not peace -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor Siddhartha, but only cable t.v.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
The cold is more poetic than the warm
A man coat-huddled against December’s winds
Evokes more sympathy in those dark days
Of stinging sleet and menacing blue clouds
The warm is less poetic than the cold
A man hat-shielded against September’s sun
Evokes no sympathy in those bright days
Of dripping sweat and dripping-too sun screen
And though McKuen sang “Listen to the warm”
There’s music in the cold while icicles form
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
The Library of Alexandria in Our Seabags
…in the army…(e)very few days one seemed to meet a scholar, an original, a poet, a cheery buffoon, a raconteur, or at the very least a man of good will.”
-C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy
The barracks was our university
So too the march, the camp, the line for chow
McKuen shared our ham and lima beans
John Steinbeck helped with cleaning guns and gear
(You’re not supposed to call your rifle a gun)
The Muses Nine were usually given a miss
But not Max Brand or Herman Wouk
Cowboys and hobbits and hippie poets
And a suspicious Russian or two
Tattered paperbacks jammed into our pockets:
All the world was our university
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
I think
Mason Williams wrote,
"Dylan Thomas has come and gone,
Come and gone, come and gone.
Dylan Thomas has come and gone;
His blood turned to words."
Rod McKuen wrote,
"I try to be a good beatnik,
But it's hard."
The Gospel writer John wrote,
"In the beginning was the Word,
And the Word was with God
And the Word was God."
Maybe we are a Word
Returning to the Word
And
Whatever we try to be good at
In the meantime is going to be hard.
But I could be wrong.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Shakespeare Didn’t Drive a Clapped-Out MGA
Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 49
A time will come when you will audit me:
My prospects as a husband and provider
The possibilities of a comfortable home
And maybe the Mercedes you deserve
I amuse you now, but not for long:
A studio apartment with a rabbit-ears TV
A hideaway bed for frolics in the afternoon
Sale-table wine and Bugler-rolled joints
Not quite Rod McKuen, to my dismay:
It’s not if but when you go away
May 14, 2024
May 14, 2024 at 3:24 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Still Listening to the Warm
Rod McKuen was the coolest of the cool
And now he’s not
Which makes him warmer than ever
On the pencil-marked pages of our youth
"Listen to the Warm" is still good advice
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 1:01 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Southpaws of the Spirit
Upon reading Mary Oliver’s Devotions
My favorite poets write on the left side of the page
Which I hadn’t known, and didn’t need to know
“It’s not important how you write, but that you write”
As my dear friend Rod McKuen did not say
Feb 13, 2024
Feb 13, 2024 at 10:49 PM UTC
They got pills now that take the place of words
So I'm thinking poetry should give it
Over, being unreliable at
Best and dangerous used as intended.
No quaaludes anymore so that rules out
Ballads, but with serotonin juicers
We could all of us be Rod McKuen.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Somewhere in New Mexico I tipped a Waitress 25%
NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for
you. You must travel it for yourself.
-Walt Whitman
On a cool autumn morning in New Mexico
A greasy spoon along the interstate
Walt Whitman and I enjoyed breakfast together
Bacon and eggs, hash browns, coffee and toast
And it was very good – no heaves of gas
But Whitman found an errand in some other soul
And sang a different self to California
McKuen rode with me the rest of the way
Breakfast was ninety-five cents; I added a quarter
The waitress was happy, and so were we all
Jun 18, 2024
Jun 18, 2024 at 12:02 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Remembering Rod McKuen
But of course some are vituperative – they aren’t him
The young still read his books, discreetly now
Because he isn’t cool in this unhappy time
The old still read his books – he saved their youth
But of course some are vituperative – they aren’t you
The young will read your books someday and know
That you have captured on paper their lives
And they will give their hearts freely to you
I hear that you are thinking of giving up poetry
You shouldn’t, you know – because while it is true
That you have a gift, you should always remember
That you are a gift, and the young need you
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 10:08 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
The Dime-Store Philosophy of Kahlil Gibran
How The Prophet Made Kahlil Gibran a Household Name in
America ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)
The dime-store philosophy of Kahlil Gibran
(“Daddy, what’s a dime-store? And what’s a dime?”)
Reposing mostly undisturbed on brick-and-board shelves
The free-verse love-salad of Rod McKuen
And Lord of the Rings in 50-cent paperbacks
The Seekers played over and over on the phonograph
(“Daddy, what’s a phonograph? Is it something bad?”)
Have you heard The Mamas and the Papas’ latest single?
Peter, Paul & Mary in “stacks of wax”
Three-chord commandos in every coffee shop
Looking back - it wasn’t the greatest stuff
But for the time and place, it was good enough
Feb 25, 2024
Feb 25, 2024 at 4:24 PM UTC