Drunk Commentary on Archibald MacLeish’s “‘Not Marble Nor the Gilded Monuments’”

by David Galef

The praisers of women in their proud and beautiful poems,
—a shout-out to Phil Sidney!
Naming the grave mouth and the hair and the eyes,
—damn, forgot a few body parts go back later
Boasted those they loved should be forever remembered:
—working on these memory tricks maybe one day it’ll stave off dementia
These were lies
—not as such  I mean they probably meant well

The words sound but the face in the Istrian sun is forgotten.
—I like that, “Istrian” hadda look it up
The poet speaks but to her dead ears no more.
—thought of buying her a hearing aid since she wouldn’t listen . . . ha ha
The sleek throat is gone—and the breast that was troubled to listen:
—I did tell her about Botox
Shadow from door.
—she left me

Therefore I will not praise your knees nor your fine walking
—I actually have a list of stuff to praise this is #32 and 33
Telling you men shall remember your name as long
—it is a long name, but the autocorrect shortens it to Brenda
As lips move or breath is spent or the iron of English
Rings from a tongue
—had a tongue stud know what I mean

I shall say you were young, and your arms straight, and your mouth scarlet
—it’s that damned lipstick she’d use  needed to tone it down
I shall say you will die and none will remember you:
—except her sister and who cares what she says?
Your arms change, and none remember the swish of your garments,
—I mean, I do, but I footed the dry-cleaning bill
Nor the click of your shoe.
—had to take her mules to the shoe repair shop too

Not with my hand’s strength, not with difficult labor
Springing the obstinate words to the bones of your breast
And the stubborn line to your young stride and the breath to your breathing
—obstinate, stubborn, am I getting that across?
And the beat to your haste
—slow down, honey what I’d tell her
Shall I prevail on the hearts of unborn men to remember.

(What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost
Or a dead man’s voice but a distant and vain affirmation
—hey Phil Sidney! hey Jack Donne!
Like dream words most)
—God these dreams I’ve been having are the worst

Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women.
I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair
—said that did I say that already?
And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of leaves on your shoulders
And a leaf on your hair—
—it’s autumn, so whaddya expect? get me a rake, right?

I will not speak of the famous beauty of dead women:
I will say the shape of a leaf lay once on your hair.
Till the world ends and the eyes are out and the mouths broken
—like closing time at Murph’s sports bar
Look! It is there!
—where I’m pointing, damn it, see?

David Galef has published humor in places ranging from the old British Punch to Spy and The New York Times Book Review. For over a decade, he’s written a humor column for Inside Higher Ed about a school called U of All People. He’s also the author of over a dozen books. His latest work of fiction is My Date with Neanderthal Woman, which won Dzanc Books’ short story collection award. His day job is professor of English and creative writing program director at Montclair State University. For a little self-aggrandizement, see www.davidgalef.com and @dgalef.