Motus Mentis

Poking around the other day at a second-hand bookseller’s in the West Village, I came upon a curious little self-published volume in a stained leather binding, cracked and brittle with age. Opening it with the greatest care, I discovered it to be a book of verse, and after reading a few entries with growing excitement, I realized that I held in my hand the work of an undiscovered genius. The proprietor being distracted by a mousy coed haggling over a rare first edition by Valerie Solanas, I slapped down the sticker price and scuttled out the door.

When I got the book home, I looked for clues to the author’s name, but sadly the hand-stenciled title page had almost faded away; as far as I could make out it appeared to be something like “Maxwell Poldark”. A rudely sketched portrait on the frontispiece revealed a haunted-looking man in late middle age, with a broad forehead beneath a receding hairline, a square jaw framed by drooping jowls, a strangely flattened nose, and the sunken eyes of a bibulous insomniac. Alas, a lengthy Google search turned up nothing.

I have since made discreet inquiries amongst my international network of scholars, literary critics, collectors, and connoisseurs, and my initial impression — that this “Poldark” is a hitherto unknown bard of sublime gifts, and that the slim volume now in my possession is a major discovery of immense literary importance — has been amply confirmed. I shall not publish its contents in full before my negotiations with various libraries, academic institutions, and private collectors are complete, but it would be churlish of me not to offer at least a small sample to our loyal readers. Here, then, is an offering randomly selected — and indeed, I have reason to believe that the long-forgotten verse here presented may in fact have served as the model for one far better known, and of far humbler quality.

Drinks

I shall not see, I dare to think
A poem lovely as a drink.

A drink whose level settles south,
Whilst flowing t’ward my thirsty mouth;

A drink that looks at me all night,
And puts my troubled thoughts to flight;

A drink that may, in summer, be
A frosty beer, or G&T;

Upon whose bosom tinkles ice
And rests a lovely lemon slice.

Poems are made by Hallmark, Inc.
But I’ll just make myself a drink.