The Man with the Beckett Face

Heavier Than Joyce, Terser,

By: Stephen Rifkin - Sep 07, 2014

The Man with the Beckett Face

You notice him, the low sun
Surround his large ears.
It is late, and evening now, the ground--
Damp road with sky, bare bough--
Notice the spare statement.
The book
Opens for the night.

You face.
His head lowered, shadow housing
The creased, gaunt conjunction.
Heavier than Joyce, terser,
And like Giacometti
A sort of somber clown...
To come,
A host of sad terrain.
The text that is,
And that is not, you suffer
With him, his life, yours.

He crossed over to Ireland, yet again.
That was August,1939, and the Germans
On the move. Sea air, escape from hot Paris, women,
Politics now in earnest, war.
And Mother? Welcoming you, you hoped.
(Hating her for real, he thought.)
Ma!

Embedded at his prose,
At the rail, white heat
And blur of place--
And surely with September, war!--
He stood. The man with the Beckett face
Is Beckett.

In turmoiled France, insuperable incident,
Stink of refugees, horses, corpse.