Give that man a martini!

The Return of Odysseus
by George Bilgere

When Odysseus finally does get home
he is understandably upset about the suitors,
who have been mooching off his wife for twenty years,
drinking his wine, eating his mutton, etc.

In a similar situation today he would seek legal counsel.
But those were different times. With the help
of his son Telemachus he slaughters roughly
one hundred and ten suitors
and quite a number of young ladies,
although in view of their behavior
I use the term loosely. Rivers of blood
course across the palace floor.

I too have come home in a bad mood.
Yesterday, for instance, after the department meeting,
when I ended up losing my choice parking spot
behind the library to the new provost.

I slammed the door. I threw down my book bag
in this particular way I have perfected over the years
that lets my wife understand
the contempt I have for my enemies,
which is prodigious. And then with great skill
she built a gin and tonic
that would have pleased the very gods,
and with epic patience she listened
as I told her of my wrath, and of what I intended to do
to so-and-so, and also to what's-his-name.

And then there was another gin and tonic
and presently my wrath abated and was forgotten,
and peace came to reign once more
in the great halls and courtyards of my house.

"The Return of Odysseus" by George Bilgere. (buy now)

Lean Christmas and other lovely things . . .

This year has been tough--the toughest I can remember as an adult, and still, there is so much to be thankful for. This poem really touched my heart, and I hope you enjoy it. Here's to hoping you and your family find love in the empty spaces, and find a way to pass this love on to others. . .

Merry Christmas,
Kit

Christmas 1963
by Joseph Enzweiler

Because we wanted much that yearand had little. Because the winter phonefor days stayed silent that would callour father back to work, and hekept silent too with our mother,fearfully proud before us.

Because I was young that morningin gray light untouched on the rugand our gifts were so few, propped along the furniture, for a secondmy heart fell, then saw how largethey made the spaces between themto take the place of less.

Because the curtained sun rose brightly on our discarded paper and the thingsthemselves, these forty years,have grown too small to see, the emptinessmeasured out remains the gift,fills the whole room now, that whole yearout across the snowy lawn.

Because a drop of shame burned quietly in the province of love. Because we had little that yearand were given much.

"Christmas 1963" by Joseph Enzweiler, from The Man Who Ordered Perch. © Iris Press, 2004 (buy now)