Dinner In A Quick Lunch Room

Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!

Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!

Stephen Vincent Benét

Stephen Vincent Benét was born on July 22, 1898, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He was an influential 20th-century American poet and short story writer. Known for his extensive historical narratives in verse, his most notable work is perhaps 'John Brown’s Body,' which won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1929. Benét's writings often delved into American Civil War themes and other significant events in the nation's history. He died on March 13, 1943.

Stephen Vincent Benét

Young Blood

Stephen Vincent Benét, Simple Poetry

Rain After A Vaudeville Show

Stephen Vincent Benét, Simple Poetry

Going Back To School

Stephen Vincent Benét, Simple Poetry

The Innovator

Stephen Vincent Benét, Simple Poetry

English

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The Gingham Dream Utterance

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A Noontide Lyric

The dinner-bell, the dinner-bell
Is ringing loud and clear;
Through hill and plain, through street and lane,
It echoes far and near;
From curtained hall and whitewashed stall,
Wherever men can hide,
Like bursting waves from ocean caves,
They float upon the tide.

I smell the smell of roasted meat!
I hear the hissing fry
The beggars know where they can go,
But where, oh where shall I?
At twelve o'clock men took my hand,
At two they only stare,
And eye me with a fearful look,
As if I were a bear!

The poet lays his laurels down,
And hastens to his greens;
The happy tailor quits his goose,
To riot on his beans;
The weary cobbler snaps his thread,
The printer leaves his pi;
His very devil hath a home,
But what, oh what ...

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Music

My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest,
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
... And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
An army stormed the bastions of the air!
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
Marching together as the lightnings march,
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed,
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast --
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
The burning seal that stamps man's high indent...

Stephen Vincent Benét

Offerings (A Movement In Four Parts)

The night is folly without the moon,
trees blank space against a frontal sky
where lattice work from a bled fish reveals
skeletal markings will not administer
the red jack of hearts to a mistress sea.

Most fickle, the ways of a cockroach
(I don't recommend them) to offerings
of white linen, cold squares atop
a stone diamonded floor.

Palaver shacks drone in ghostly light
communicating some message about eel runs
up the black river, the equivalent brush
of tombstones against dark nightsoil.

Tiny bars open as cubicles.
proverbial flashes of the coming evening,
haciendas to count every blessing.

The road to such places
snarls a dusty pleasure
and will heat thin blood
to boil in the daylight hours.

II

Swe...

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Reflections Of A Poet, On Going To A Great Dinner.

Great epoch in the history of bards!
Important day to those who woo the nine;
Better than fame are visitation-cards,
And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.

O cruel memory! do not conjure up
The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook;
Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup,
And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book.

For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates,
And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd;
"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:"
Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d.

D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves;
Malicious fancy makes them so expert,
They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves,
And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt.

Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless t...

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The Fiddling Wood

Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ
The trees with magic. All the wood was still --

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth --
Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples
Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" --
I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled,
Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred
The brown, dry ...

Stephen Vincent Benét