Genius is fleeting, never breeding
Then the City Times sets the date
It let knives of style cut out the feeling
And leave it for the gulls on the quay
I remember his beauty
Eyes the color of absinthe
It recall it dissolutely
Wormwood verses of another Blythe
Cliches poison poems
They die only one way
Then we must rhyme alone
See how well the dead obey
My emotions were once real
But too fine for high words
So instead of reaching ideal
I’ll fall back into the herd
Saragun Springs 
Has Barrymore really been dead that long? I recall reading in Errol Flynn’s biography how Barrymore’s friends took his corpse from the funeral home and set it up in Flynn’s home with a drink in his hand. He was a real actor. He died at 60, if memory serves. It’s a lovely verse. JB would appreciate it–and ask for another libation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Bill
It is refreshing to hear from someone who knows of JB!
Yes, that coffin story got around. It even appears in SOB, that Blake Edward’s flick in which Julie showed her “hills.” Strange reaction to that one–it got both razzie and established award nominations in the same categories. Love it! (The razzies are corporate drones now–guess there must be pods like that lying around, baited with money. Just ask The Rolling Stone and all other “Free thinking” publications.)
Thank you!
Leila
LikeLike
A fine poem portraying Barrymore’s talent, glamour, and self-destruction. The absinthe eyes image and wormwood verses reference are excellent. “See how well the dead obey” — such a brilliant and dark observation. Really good work.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you David
All my life I have been open to obsessions. And for some reason I became obsessed with Barrymore in the 1980s. I’ve always been attracted to tragic drunkards and since that can be used on me (to some extent) there is a connection.
And although the obsessions, which when they happen, tend to make me an expert on the object always diminish (as with Galileo, Aliester Crowley, Dorothy Parker, Shirley Jackson, WC Fields and others), they remain with me forever, like a beloved failed romance.
If Barrymore had been born a generation later he would be up there with Bogart, but by the time the talkies came around he was in his fifties and suffered alcoholic amnesia. But he never lost his sense of humor. I have all kinds of books about him and his family–original prints. Truly a fascinating world they lived in.
Forgot to mention the poster is on my wall between pieces by Giger and Dali. A fitting place.
Thanks again!
Leila
LikeLiked by 1 person
Leila
This is a truly beautiful poem and the way it handles the voice/s with subtle modulation is intense in a quiet, powerful way (there’s more than one “voice” in this poem). The language is elliptical, evocative, and as NON-wordy as a sculpture is.
It’s a beautiful portrayal of the tragedy of its subject as both person AND artist! And it knows that once it’s all over, the tragedy is over too, and now there is a monument, or at least a memory.
This poem needs to be read at least a few times to draw out its meanings enough to fully “get” some of what it’s getting at. Beautiful on a first reading, and it’s necessary to go back over it slowly to really understand – and THAT is what a REAL poem is.
That poster is hella good too! The expressions on their faces are amazing as is the background with the black and yellow and the way the light falls onto the table between them and the shadows etc etc. It’s a poster that is not just a poster but is art.
One of Barrymore’s nicknames was “The Profile” because of his profile.
I think he’s one of those artists whose real influence is much deeper than the public at large is aware of now.
The way you have these obsessions with great figures of the past and then leave them but retain the memory of the love affair is exactly how it’s supposed to work, and is exactly how it DOES work in the best art. One must fully absorb them and then leave them in the dust in order to gain the influence and then avoid OVER-influence, which is just as fatal to art as not having the original influence/s is.
I just spent all last night watching and re-watching one of the best documentaries about an artist I’ve ever seen, called BERGMAN – A YEAR IN A LIFE, about Ingmar Bergman, directed by Jane Magnusson (2018). Most of the people speaking in the film (other than Bergman himself, who was also a kind of actor) were actors and actresses so it was wild to wake up this morning to your poem and picture.
Bergman was another artist (like Dali) who usually didn’t drink or do drugs – but based upon his behavior, most of the people who saw him thought that he did do drugs (or was drunk).
Dale
LikeLike