Literary Exercise #16--A Lesson in Homelessness
Below is a poem I wrote for my poetry final. It's called the "Cardboard Stories of Bungalow Bill" and it follows the transitional arc of a homeless writer named Bill. He used to write in writer's circles, but became dissilusioned. Part of the inspiration for this poem is the Beatles's song, "The Continuing Stories of Bungalow Bill." I'm including a brief abstract below, as it will help in understanding the poem. There are also three Eliot references and one Yeats allusion. See if you can catch them.
==Richard A. Cooke III had gone on a tiger hunt in India when he was staying with John Lennon at a retreat. Cooke, who Lennon refers to as 'Bungalow Bill' in the song, was with a group of people watching a herd of elephants milling about. Suddenly, a tiger jumped out to attack the elephants, and 'Bill' shot it. Initially he was proud, but after he returned to the lodgings, Lennon questioned the ethicality of his act. Afterwards, 'Bill' felt remorse and gave up hunting altogether==
The Cardboard Stories of Bungalow Bill:
Bill is a story-maker, he crafts stories,
on the edifice of homeless life, his cardboard box.
He shrugs and he coughs; fidgetates his fingers –
like the neurons racing in the shade of his forehead’s shelter –
And he writes – on the underbelly.
To coax a black-tipped marker he found at rest,
he says:
“Forget the cold, unclot your arteries –
as I do mine. Last night you had no hand,
and I no bed, but today we have each other.”
And to appease himself he later mutters:
“I ain’t afraid to put name to my work,
and there’s no more a totem to be found.”
And to distract himself he tells a story:
“Marker, you had a store, I had a home.
I was young. I had a job. I had a wife.
I wrote the headlines for my state recorder.
I felt the vagrant pull of a writer’s life.
I was Prufrock pinned! Oh God!
Little marker! At a damn cocktail party!”
He paused, cradled his friend, and spoke again:
“I’m afraid I lack the skill to tell my story,
I can point to the light, but I can’t name you the star,
that shines it down, one night I heard the Beatles.
Do you like music? Forgive me for my candor,
but I’ve always been fond of music for its fervor,
in separating the grays from the black and the white.
It was the White Album – Side One – Sixth Track –
Lennon was crooning about a bungalow chap
that shared my name and shared my same disaster –
can you imagine? I was at a lack
for words, but Lennon kept his verses coming.
This ‘Bill’ shot past an elephant herd at a lonely tiger,
claiming he had an eye for the hunt and the knack,
but later gave up his guns and never went back.”
“And I, dear marker, was shocked I was a partner,
in shooting past my life at paper tigers.
And when Lennon asked poor Bill if he had sinned,
He asked of me what he had asked of him,
‘to take to the streets and be a brown-bag writer,’
where critics devoured less-than-edible authors,
picking their teeth with the bones of renegade hacks,
crumbling their remains to sprinkle as ash.”
“But marker, there’s more to be feared than Eliot’s dust.
Bad art,” he said, and vanished into the dusk.
So Bill has become a prophet without honor,
A rough beast that haunts the hovels of Bethlehem,
But if he’s slouching towards the Second Coming,
He said, “They should be glad of another death,
‘Cause materials change, but art it never did.”
Bill wouldn’t think twice of ripping it to pieces,
His box, his artifice, his lonely life,
‘Cause he says “What’s yours is yours and you freely own it.
And I’d rather give it away before they try.”
