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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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397.
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A Favour Sweetheart
I am aware that
this is asking
a bit too much.
Perhaps it is
just little me,
so out-of-line
that I am past
all shame now,
no embarrassment
can get to me
only priorities,
so look at this
with a small dab
of vegemite,
not peanut butter
or jam from
Shepherd's files.
In actuality
I wondered
could you,
that should be
would you,
kindly send
by
Federal Express
your pillow,
the one
in case
you do peruse
a multiple
of those,
the one that has
the privilege
to be as close
to you and yours
(by which I mean
the parts that make
the sum of
what can best
be said to represent
the SNUGGELIES,)
there are no
other wishes
at this time,
my love.
And please don't
hesitate,
I am the ailing
owner of a script
for pheromones.
They say it is
essential.
Herbert Nehrlich
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398.
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A Feather For Poverty
I do not care how much they would
give to buy me if they could.
I am poor and often starving,
desperately, slowly carving
my own way through this shady maze.
I say to those whose lusty gaze
rests, uninvited on my skin:
Your dreams of finding your small pin
inside of me will not come true.
And if in winter's cold I'm blue
of lips and without any food,
it will not get me in the mood.
I have no shelter and no bread,
and by tomorrow might be dead.
Yes. I'm a virgin, clean and proud
says this young maiden, clear and loud.
And her legs are getting leaden,
rightly sensing Armageddon.
Drags herself down to the Fountain
where a man is standing, counting
money in his fur-gloved hand,
reaching out to help her stand.
' Dear young girl, you are not well,
listen now to what I tell,
come with me up to my room
to escape your certain doom.
All the streets are full of lechers,
prostitutes and woman catchers.'
So she follows him upstairs,
seeing that perhaps he cares.
In the light of his adobe
wrapping her into his robe,
tucks her under feather cover
but refuses to be lover,
feeds her soup with silver spoon,
lets her sleep there until noon.
As she wakes she finds a box,
filled with heavy woolen socks,
bread and cheese and also money,
then she steps into the sunny
day of her old world again.
Thinking that there must be men
who are kind and altruistic,
she herself is quite artistic.
And, on that day she finds employment,
a new life full of much enjoyment,
is waiting for her signal 'YES'
but all of it becomes a mess
when the director of her work
turns out to be a cheap old jerk.
He sees her as his latest toy
to bring her, daily, carnal joy.
That night she's back out on the street,
half-dreaming of the man she'd meet
like once before, to give her kindness,
but Lady Luck displays her blindness.
Her lips are cold and very blue,
as frost arrests the morning dew,
when at the Fountain cries disturb
her sleep, and over by the curb
he stands and waves and comes across,
her head moves in defiant toss.
But when he takes her frozen hand
she grips its warmth securely and
again they climb the creaking stairs
again she puts on hold her cares.
He sets the table and they eat,
right after stretching out their feet
toward the fireplace and savour
a burgundy with Southern flavour.
He dozes off, still in his chair
when she decides to strip and bare,
she slips into the giant bed....
that's when the waking fellow said
'Of course you may sleep in my covers,
just be aware we are not lovers.'
Behind the stove he dons pyjamas
of flannel to prevent those dramas
that happen in the heat of night,
to him this sin would not be right.
And in the morning came a cry
from the outside where chickens fly.
It was that ancient Spanish cock,
he doubles as the town's own clock.
The rooster landed on the sill
and looked inside, where, sleeping still,
they lay entangled with each other.
He shook his comb, crowed 'Poultry Mother'
and flew back down to see his flock.
He thought about the man who'd mock
his morals for a horny fling
with such a poor and raggy thing.
But then, inside his cozy den
went over to his half-dressed hen
and had his usual way with her
until the dust was just a blur,
which she enjoyed because it had
been ages since this cocky lad
had shown an interest in her charms,
she'd take him back with open arms.
Upstairs, there's stirring in the covers,
and they awoke as newborn lovers.
Both took a vow to stay together.
And on the sill she found the feather.
Herbert Nehrlich
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399.
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A Few Of Us
Each one of us thinks greatness has
without much open razzmatazz
been resident within our minds.
So when we sit on our behinds
sheer brilliance leaves like morning dew
and paints the world a gentle blue.
So, question not, accept that we
dwell always in the gallery.
Like paintings in the homes of Czars
or vintage wines in noble bars
our genius, given right at birth
makes us the talents of this earth.
Needless to say I do not speak
of the majority who seek
their admiration from their peers
while wallowing in morbid fears.
And give to me a generous budget
trust me. It's poetry. I'll judge it.
Herbert Nehrlich
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400.
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A Fine Sunday It Turned Out To Be
She sat there in my Haines,
reading Oliver Sacks to me.
While I, not being the literal kind,
this fine morning, I stared
discreetly, needless to say,
at how her two formidable buds
rose with the inflection of her voice,
I never did call them oxymorons again,
though I saw them as such,
they tasted like out of this world
and they seemed to be filled with
the warmest blood a mammal,
any mammal could be expected to possess.
She was a clever girl, a bit left brained,
slow in the corpus callosum when it came,
you know, right down to choice,
on a Sunday afternoon, for example,
too many distractions, like this session,
a neurologist who doubles as a Seinfeld,
only much smarter and more technical,
fine, fine I said for the umpteenth time,
you can read to me while I, you know,
to which she vehemently objected, yeah,
on the phony grounds that a woman,
anywhere on the globe could not,
would not be able or willing to whistle
and to eat at one and the same time.
But she has always been great on compromise,
not that I deserve any of it, or so it seems,
to me when I brush my teeth with sound waves,
while looking at my soul in the mirror,
I think she might truly be smitten, like I am.
We men are so dumb, ain't we, thick
as we say Down Under, we lack, lack, lack
confidence, never being really sure,
always between erection and rejection.
I wonder if it's just me and if it stems from
that dreaded Oedipus Complex. Really,
could very well be, won't ask her though,
In the end she always wins, wins for me
and again, she put the damn book down,
placed my head, with her gentlewoman fingers
gingerly, sweetly and somewhat resolutely
on her zone, the dividing range between her,
words fail me here, man...... deliciosos,
where the words of Oliver Sacks soothe my ears,
and her heart plays its secret melody, just for me.
(For C, a fellow dreamer with a fine SCM)
Herbert Nehrlich
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