Selected excerpts from:
KINGS AND
BEGGARS
Poetry by
Paul Genega
ISTANBUL
Here the place he lies and sulks
as the sultan lied and sulked,
lain low and unlaid, in the declining
years of his empire. Turbaned
now in terrycloth and ice, he thinks
of slippered boys, sweet and strong
as taffy, pulling the black curtains,
ushering the sun; still, he does not
rise one inch. Quilted in guilt,
Regrets Only morning-after, pasha
mumbles postcards, pernod and pearls
though he's so strung-out this morning
he can't even stand to pee, slumps
further into pillows, frowns back
to the wall, certain he'll abandon
plans for war games and a brunch.
Then the day leaps up and licks him.
The bacon in him sizzles. Something
like courage grouts the bleeding heart.
In a wink, he's off and thrashing,
halfway across the Bosphorus, each
stroke harder in the swirling cold.
ACTOR'S EQUITY
The thing is it's a swiz. It seems to be offering
you something,
but actually it's taking some thing away.
Peter Shaffer, EQUUS
There comes a time when you tire of the act,
when Swiz the inky clown is played out.
Every scrapbook entry yellowed,
every promo photo torn,
you're not what you would-be or was.
The whip crack, applause, kept you
hoofing from Bangor to Spokane
but it no longer rips like it used to.
There's a breeze but no thunder in the house.
And laughs, if laughs come, hit like darts.
The crowds in time grow weary of the act
then Swiz the crooked clown gets the hook.
He's a hard one to dismiss, recalling the assembling,
for denim fades slowly and cowlicks won't pat down
while the proper proportion of smile and frown,
swagger and stride, are not soon acquired.
. . .
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