following
Boyd’ lead, or responding to some imaginative vigor that the poem revealed, a vigor of which, curiously enough, its imprecision
and ragged sentimentality and obliviousness to all rules of structure and concerns about accuracy might have been the ultimate
proof. For there is this to be said about “Vancouver": Bombastic though it is, there is life in the thing. Alas Ben’ refusal,
as always, to accept (much less contend with) the interfering laws imposed by logic, form, and the real world in the end shipwrecks
him, rendering the poem, like all his poems, unpublishable and probably unreadable. But that didn’t matter to his audience
on Thanksgiving eve 1969. After all, he was only fifteen. What they saw was an unsuspected promise, albeit one which it would
take him many long years to fulfill.
The applause died out—and then, to my surprise, Anne was the first to stand. “Ben, that was wonderful, just wonderful,” she
said, stumbling up to him and taking him in an embrace that opened Nancy’ mouth, as there was in it more than a touch of salaciousness.
Anne’ breasts were squashed flat against his chest; she might have been grinding her hips. I wasn’t sure. In any case, Boyd
saved the day. “Yes, wasn’t it?” he echoed, taking his wife’ hand and leading her back to the daybed, away from Ben. “Very
exciting. Have you sent it to your brother?”
“No.”
“I think you should,” Nancy said. “Mark will be thrilled.
Moved.”
“I don’t want him to read it until it’ published,” Ben said. “I’ve sent it to The New Yorker.”
“Oh, The New Yorkerl If there’ one thing I admire in a young writer, it’ gumption. I myself stopped sending stories to The New Yorker fifteen years ago. I figured, after Bill Maxwell had turned down thirty-five of them, what was the point in wasting any more
postage?”
“Oh, Jonah, don’t worry, Ben doesn’t really expect The New Yorker to publish his poem,” Nancy said.
“Yes, I do.”
“No matter . . . If they do, it’ll be wonderful, and if they don’t, it’ll be even more wonderful.” She clapped her hands together,
apparently unfazed by the utter pointlessness of this remark. “Well, hasn’t this been a wonderful evening? And now who’ ready
for more pie?”
“I thought maybe I could read a second poem,” Ben said.
“Now, Ben, one’ enough. We don’t want to tire Mr. Boyd. After all, he and Anne have had a very long day. They had to get up
very early in the morning on the East Coast, which is the middle of the night here.”
“But I only want to read one more!”
Unfortunately for Ben the crowd was already dispersing, moving back toward the kitchen. “Sorry, honey,” Nancy said, and rested
her hand on her son’ head.
He flinched it away. “It’ not fair,” he said.
“What’ not? You had your chance.”
“But I only read half as long as he did.”
“Well, Mr. Boyd’ a famous novelist. When you’re a famous poet, you can read twice as long, how about that?”
“I’ll tell you what, Ben,” Boyd interjected. “How about if we go off somewhere and I listen to some more of your poems?”
“Oh, Jonah, you don’t have to do that . . .”
“But I want to. Really, I think it’ my duty, as an old gorgon of a writer, to impart what wisdom I possess to this young acolyte.”
“But you must be tired . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Let them,” Anne said.
Ben looked pleadingly into Nancy’ eyes. She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Boyd rested a hand on Ben’ shoulder. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“Okay . . . But Ben, you have to promise not to keep Mr. Boyd longer than he feels like listening.”
“Let’ go to your room.”
“What about your room?”
“Ben, you have to promise.”
“I promise, okay?” And he led Boyd off. Chin cupped in hand, Nancy watched them recede, until Anne touched her on the shoulder.
She turned. Anne smiled at her friend, for the first time
Boyd’ lead, or responding to some imaginative vigor that the poem revealed, a vigor of which, curiously enough, its imprecision
and ragged sentimentality and obliviousness to all rules of structure and concerns about accuracy might have been the ultimate
proof. For there is this to be said about “Vancouver": Bombastic though it is, there is life in the thing. Alas Ben’ refusal,
as always, to accept (much less contend with) the interfering laws imposed by logic, form, and the real world in the end shipwrecks
him, rendering the poem, like all his poems, unpublishable and probably unreadable. But that didn’t matter to his audience
on Thanksgiving eve 1969. After all, he was only fifteen. What they saw was an unsuspected promise, albeit one which it would
take him many long years to fulfill.
The applause died out—and then, to my surprise, Anne was the first to stand. “Ben, that was wonderful, just wonderful,” she
said, stumbling up to him and taking him in an embrace that opened Nancy’ mouth, as there was in it more than a touch of salaciousness.
Anne’ breasts were squashed flat against his chest; she might have been grinding her hips. I wasn’t sure. In any case, Boyd
saved the day. “Yes, wasn’t it?” he echoed, taking his wife’ hand and leading her back to the daybed, away from Ben. “Very
exciting. Have you sent it to your brother?”
“No.”
“I think you should,” Nancy said. “Mark will be thrilled.
Moved.”
“I don’t want him to read it until it’ published,” Ben said. “I’ve sent it to The New Yorker.”
“Oh, The New Yorkerl If there’ one thing I admire in a young writer, it’ gumption. I myself stopped sending stories to The New Yorker fifteen years ago. I figured, after Bill Maxwell had turned down thirty-five of them, what was the point in wasting any more
postage?”
“Oh, Jonah, don’t worry, Ben doesn’t really expect The New Yorker to publish his poem,” Nancy said.
“Yes, I do.”
“No matter . . . If they do, it’ll be wonderful, and if they don’t, it’ll be even more wonderful.” She clapped her hands together,
apparently unfazed by the utter pointlessness of this remark. “Well, hasn’t this been a wonderful evening? And now who’ ready
for more pie?”
“I thought maybe I could read a second poem,” Ben said.
“Now, Ben, one’ enough. We don’t want to tire Mr. Boyd. After all, he and Anne have had a very long day. They had to get up
very early in the morning on the East Coast, which is the middle of the night here.”
“But I only want to read one more!”
Unfortunately for Ben the crowd was already dispersing, moving back toward the kitchen. “Sorry, honey,” Nancy said, and rested
her hand on her son’ head.
He flinched it away. “It’ not fair,” he said.
“What’ not? You had your chance.”
“But I only read half as long as he did.”
“Well, Mr. Boyd’ a famous novelist. When you’re a famous poet, you can read twice as long, how about that?”
“I’ll tell you what, Ben,” Boyd interjected. “How about if we go off somewhere and I listen to some more of your poems?”
“Oh, Jonah, you don’t have to do that . . .”
“But I want to. Really, I think it’ my duty, as an old gorgon of a writer, to impart what wisdom I possess to this young acolyte.”
“But you must be tired . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Let them,” Anne said.
Ben looked pleadingly into Nancy’ eyes. She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Boyd rested a hand on Ben’ shoulder. “I’m absolutely sure.”
“Okay . . . But Ben, you have to promise not to keep Mr. Boyd longer than he feels like listening.”
“Let’ go to your room.”
“What about your room?”
“Ben, you have to promise.”
“I promise, okay?” And he led Boyd off. Chin cupped in hand, Nancy watched them recede, until Anne touched her on the shoulder.
She turned. Anne smiled at her friend, for the first time
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