The Blue Room

[waitingforgodet]

She was a regal gal under a blue hat and past her prime
and had already entered the golden years of her decline.

She stopped me outside the hotel, commanding me
to have a drink with her, a self-proclaimed Brahmin Lady
and relic of the past who just might insist that I hold her hand
inside the Ritz's deserted piano bar where she resurrected a jazz band
from the Blue Room that played music so sad it would make you cry
with a sound so exquisitely beautiful you wanted to die.


It was a time when everybody smoked
and people had class and joked
about everything under the sun
and men knew sacrifice and had honor and wouldn't run
like the scared chickens they are today,
so full of themselves and their own vanity—
"present company excepted, of course," she said--
"all the good men are dead."

Women felt safe riding the subway late at night
and people were kinder and men did what was right--

high school graduates could recite The Road Not Taken
and read Madame Bovary and everyone knew the literary criticism of H.L. Menken.

We sipped our drinks and she talked while I listened.
There were breaks in her speech and her ageless eyes glistened
when she spoke of the only man who captured her heart,
a jazz musician from the South End--true love from the start
but he was killed in the war and she married a Beacon Hill financier
kind to the Irish, but to their own children cold and austere. Cold and austere.

Now would I be kind enough to escort an old lady from this once great piano bar and put her in a cab.
I wasn't her first choice, she wouldn’t go in alone, but other men passed her by-- no, I'll pay the bar tab.
She kissed my cheek and took my arm, stopping once to thank me for listening to an old lady gab.

(As we walked out arm and arm I wondered how long she would have waited for a man
and I thought of the other men who chose to pass her by and what they’ll never know—damn.
And I wondered what I’d be like past my prime and well into my golden years:
Would I be telling younger people about my own Blue Room and would they lend me their ears?)

[billy]

She was a regal gal under a blue hat and past her prime would a comma do instead of and?
and had already entered the golden years of her decline. would 'who' do instead of and?

She stopped me outside the hotel, commanding me
to have a drink with her, a self-proclaimed Brahmin Lady
and relic of the past who just might insist that I hold her hand does it need a comma after past in order to give us a breath?
inside the Ritz's deserted piano bar where she resurrected a jazz band
from the Blue Room that played music so sad it would make you cry
with a sound so exquisitely beautiful you wanted to die.


It was a time when everybody smoked
and people had class and joked
about everything under the sun
and men knew sacrifice and had honor and wouldn't run
like the scared chickens they are today,
so full of themselves and their own vanity—
"present company excepted, of course," she said--
"all the good men are dead."

Women felt safe riding the subway late at night
and people were kinder and men did what was right--

high school graduates could recite The Road Not Taken
and read Madame Bovary and everyone knew the literary criticism of H.L. Menken.

We sipped our drinks and she talked while I listened.
There were breaks in her speech and her ageless eyes glistened
when she spoke of the only man who captured her heart,
a jazz musician from the South End--true love from the start
but he was killed in the war and she married a Beacon Hill financier
kind to the Irish, but to their own children cold and austere. Cold and austere.

Now would I be kind enough to escort an old lady from this once great piano bar and put her in a cab.
I wasn't her first choice, she wouldn’t go in alone, but other men passed her by-- no, I'll pay the bar tab.
She kissed my cheek and took my arm, stopping once to thank me for listening to an old lady gab.

(As we walked out arm and arm I wondered how long she would have waited for a man
and I thought of the other men who chose to pass her by and what they’ll never know—damn.
And I wondered what I’d be like past my prime and well into my golden years:
Would I be telling younger people about my own Blue Room and would they lend me their ears?)

i 've read this piece before. and it's even better now than it was then.
since having more reads i have one nit. for me the use of words like 'and'
a few of them could be lost without any harm to the structure of the poem. also, a few comma's strategically placed would help regulate us (the reader) and allow us to take a breath now and again. i think the format is spot on so i wouldn't shorten the lines as such.

for me this is an excellent piece of writing. a superb take on the past meeting the now. i see the woman and think of Tiffany light shades and liberty calling card case. excellent imagery jim. the piece is vibrant and alive with her memories. the narrator has that marlow voice of a paper back novel and the young man is of the now, except he has compassion and now, understanding. great write.

for me it needs a little edit to make it a good publishable piece of poetry.

thanks for the read

[addy]

This is wonderful... so much flavor and character, with a confident and powerful narrative voice. Flowed really well too, save maybe for a few long spots. A slight polish and it'll be golden.

[waitingforgodet]

Thank you, Addy.