Margarita (a poem)
“Margarita” was previously published in the July 1982 issue of Local Storms. The first lines came to me one evening in the spring of 1978 while drinking more than was strictly speaking advisable with companions at the Little 5 Points Pub in Atlanta. Upon taking my leave and adjourning to my apartment, I inserted a sheet of paper into the old Royal manual typewriter that served me well through college and on until the advent of the computer era. That night I typed the lines that had come to me earlier, then went to bed. Upon waking in the morning, I made a cup of the instant coffee we drank in those days, went to the typewriter, and the poem poured out onto the page.
For a few years “Margarita” was a go-to poem for poetry readings. It is marked by a rhythm that seemed to come across when I got it right. I have read the poem on only a few occasions in the past quarter of a century. If memory serves, the last time was somewhere between ten and fifteen years ago at an open mic Christopher Luna hosted across the Columbia River in Vancouver.
Margarita her dark eyes searching softly the skyline— candles burn slowly in delicate rooms— the hoarse hollow whispers of gray aging lovers drinking tequila hid in the shadows, sunlight fades on dry petals of flowers— the weary professor with his watch on a chain pulls a book from his briefcase of original poems by Ezra Pound and pretends he doesn't care he's at this table alone— the tattooed bartender ejects a drunk the shoeshine boy chews on a Mounds and mean-faced cops stand in the doorway Margarita smiles and with her hand in her pocket (and her hair pulled back and tied in a bun) she walks outside into the rain where the young dope smoker calls her by name and the guitar player and the old violinist follow her through streets filled with rubble smoke from the ashes of old Spanish missions burning in the moonlight creeps up to the stars as the priest with his beads weeps in the alley— Margarita turns slowly takes the hand of her lover and leads him through midnight to an ancient empty room the door closing behind them like the sound of a hammer beating on an anvil in the middle of the day— outside the window through the dirty torn curtain you can see the fireworks roman candles and sparklers spraying the night— Margarita stands sadly alone at the window the young newspaper vendor on the sidewalk below hawking his papers to the lost and the dying, sweet angels with heads full of snow— and the punk rock band in the cafe across the street rocks out and cries out and chews on a microphone and sings out to whoever hears all the pain that Margarita feels as she fondles a flower and dripping hot water faucet keeps time to the beat and Margarita at the window staring down at the street sees her reflection in stone so cold and oblique so beautiful it's frightening so dark and so complete— she turns her gaze up to the sky and prays to the lord she doesn't believe in but when you have to say something and there's no one to listen and you're weary as hell and the holes in the walls just eat up your heart… Margarita sinks softly into her bed and lies awake all night and nothing is said till the sunlight of dawn trickles into the room and she finds herself wondering if she is dead
Keep the faith. Stand with Ukraine. yr obdt svt