You Ought to Be Kenneth Fearing My Fist in Your Pie-Hole...

...If you disrespect Kenneth Fearing.

I'm going back to the source again today, the red book that's always got my number: Ciardi's "How Does a Poem Mean?"

I listened to a podcast on this poem a little while back and found it interesting that Fearing was always viewed as a lightweight poet. He was seen as kind of entertaining but ultimately there just wasn't much there.

Most of what I've read of his work is really fantastic - pop culture references (dated of course), a real ear for language (especially hard-boiled Edward G. Robinson stuff, you gotta say it out one side of your mouth), and some weighty substance under the surface.

But I'll let you be the judge of that. To see what I'm talking about, you really have to read this one out loud.

Dirge

Kenneth Fearing

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came 3-2-1;
   bought his Carbide at 30 and it went to 29; had the favorite at Bowie but the track was slow—


O, executive type, would you like to drive a floating power, knee-action, silk-upholstered six? Wed a Hollywood star? Shoot the course in 58? Draw to the ace, king, jack?
   O, fellow with a will who won't take no, watch out for three cigarettes on the same, single match; O democratic voter born in August under Mars, beware of liquidated rails—


Denouement to denouement, he took a personal pride in the certain, certain way he lived his own, private life,
   but nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the bank foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called; nevertheless, the radio broke,


And twelve o'clock arrived just once too often,
   just the same he wore one gray tweed suit, bought one straw hat, drank one straight Scotch, walked one short step, took one long look, drew one deep breath,
   just one too many,


And wow he died as wow he lived,
   going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and biff got married and bam had children and oof got fired,
   zowie did he live and zowie did he die,


With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and where the hell we going on the right-hand silver knob, and who
the hell cares walking second from the end with an American Beauty wreath from why the hell not,


Very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York Evening Post; deeply, deeply mourned by the B.M.T.,


Wham, Mr. Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big dipper; bop, summer rain;
   Bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.




That one always made me both happy and cynical. I love the rhythms and movement, the imagery and confusion all through it. But it's also a deeply miserable poem, almost like a Mirror Universe Normal Rockwell. 

Here's another one.

X Minus X

Kenneth Fearing

Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare;
And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark,

Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs,
Your laughter, their laughter,
Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours—

Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.


So yeah, Fearing is no lightweight. I gotta get me a collected works.