Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.
How to Howl
Tell yourself it’s normal—
Quite natural, this time of year.
Invite the moon into your bedroom
For a smoke or a tipple;
Perhaps both, if available.
Consecrate the event with a prayer,
And then howl, as required,
Until you reach the welkins.
Think Ginsberg, should you dare.
Put your shoulder to the wheel,
Turning when necessary.
By now, I must imagine,
Your new friend is no stranger.
You can both engage
In any wolfishness you desire—
Reaching a fevered pitch.
At some point, before dawn,
Your throat might give out,
Yet not your desire to wail
A few more exquisite hours.
And the ever mercurial moon?
It’s already summoned home.
But don’t worry, my friend.
You need it no longer.
The Wagon
On the wagon?
Off the wagon?
And whose wagon is it?
Never quite sure
Where I should be,
This time of night,
When everything’s so still
You can hear your heart
Thumping, beat after beat,
Like a backward kangaroo,
Unable to navigate his way
Out of the front yard.
I suppose I should know
How to stay sober by now.
How to go cold turkey.
But the chicken in me
Won’t ever fess up
To the comical truth:
I have no desire
Living through a life
Without a measly drink.
So there you have it.
Can’t say it ain’t been said.
And the wagon?
Gone, once again.
Café Insomnia
Open all night long
For tethered thoughts,
Twisted carnival dreams,
Racing through mindless chatter—
From sin’s almighty refuge
To dawn’s distant light.
Bring us the sleepless mess
You can’t deliver anywhere else.
Mail without a street address,
Unstamped by man or machine.
Believe me, we aim to please,
Offering one strange brew
After another, perchance,
Until you’ve had enough,
Shaking off the next demon,
Huddled in the corner booth,
Waiting to chat you up.
When departure hour arrives,
Don’t expect a bill;
After all, it’s on the house.
Please come again, soon,
And remember, of course,
We never close.
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