Quincy Lehr was raised in Norman, Oklahoma and presently lives in Brooklyn, having returned to the U.S.
after two years in Ireland. His work has appeared in venues in the United States, Britain, Ireland, and
Australia, including Cadenza, The Chimaera, Crannog, Iambs & Trochees, The Dark Horse, The Raintown Review,
The Shit Creek Review, and WOW! Magazine. His first book of poetry, "Across the Grid of Streets", was
published by Seven Towers in April 2008. With R. Nemo Hill, he co-edits the Modern Metrics chapbook series,
and used to host an associated reading. He is the Associate Editor of the Raintown Review.
after two years in Ireland. His work has appeared in venues in the United States, Britain, Ireland, and
Australia, including Cadenza, The Chimaera, Crannog, Iambs & Trochees, The Dark Horse, The Raintown Review,
The Shit Creek Review, and WOW! Magazine. His first book of poetry, "Across the Grid of Streets", was
published by Seven Towers in April 2008. With R. Nemo Hill, he co-edits the Modern Metrics chapbook series,
and used to host an associated reading. He is the Associate Editor of the Raintown Review.
Quincy R. Lehr
The Rest of the Story
There is no cause but this -- a speeding train,
a damsel on the track. But it's not clear
why she was hog-tied as the train grew near,
or why the hero dashed across the plain
at great risk to himself. And did the villain
want her money, did he want revenge,
or what the hell's the story? Who will fill in
the damned ellipses? Therein lies the tinge
of bias, pious declarations, stock
melodrama, studies in archetype,
varying degrees of smut and hype,
specifics added in for added shock,
piano players plonking through a score
of tunes we know by instinct, our certitude
the girl's, the hero's. He'll be back for more
next week, his hair in place, his methods crude.
There is no cause but this -- a speeding train,
a damsel on the track. But it's not clear
why she was hog-tied as the train grew near,
or why the hero dashed across the plain
at great risk to himself. And did the villain
want her money, did he want revenge,
or what the hell's the story? Who will fill in
the damned ellipses? Therein lies the tinge
of bias, pious declarations, stock
melodrama, studies in archetype,
varying degrees of smut and hype,
specifics added in for added shock,
piano players plonking through a score
of tunes we know by instinct, our certitude
the girl's, the hero's. He'll be back for more
next week, his hair in place, his methods crude.
Track Suit Bottoms
Those track suit bottoms -- black, but going grey --
overwhelm my other thoughts of her.
She'd wear them in on Saturdays, a shadow
of shapeless clothing, moping in her bed
with bored and mewing cats around her feet.
I thought the track suit bottoms and the sweater
she wore with them were like a drooping shawl
you sometimes see old women wear, dull black,
pleading that you avert your eyes and pass
like some cruel angel to smite somebody else.
Each coaxing word, the jocularity
I forced into my speech, just seemed to drive
her back to bed and underneath her duvet.
The trousers grew more wrinkled and her face
more lined with worry, even when she slept.
Those track suit bottoms -- black, but going grey --
overwhelm my other thoughts of her.
She'd wear them in on Saturdays, a shadow
of shapeless clothing, moping in her bed
with bored and mewing cats around her feet.
I thought the track suit bottoms and the sweater
she wore with them were like a drooping shawl
you sometimes see old women wear, dull black,
pleading that you avert your eyes and pass
like some cruel angel to smite somebody else.
Each coaxing word, the jocularity
I forced into my speech, just seemed to drive
her back to bed and underneath her duvet.
The trousers grew more wrinkled and her face
more lined with worry, even when she slept.
Fragment from an American Folk Song,
Circa. 2003
You're drunk and you're bored and you're slouching beneath
an unwatched TV while that twat Toby Keith
sings on the jukebox. It beggars belief,
but Saddam's 'at the top of his list'.
It goes on like this until late in the night.
You can say what you think, but it might mean a fight,
so you fondle your beer with your mouth closed up tight,
but your free hand closed up in a fist.
Circa. 2003
You're drunk and you're bored and you're slouching beneath
an unwatched TV while that twat Toby Keith
sings on the jukebox. It beggars belief,
but Saddam's 'at the top of his list'.
It goes on like this until late in the night.
You can say what you think, but it might mean a fight,
so you fondle your beer with your mouth closed up tight,
but your free hand closed up in a fist.