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Adam Weirauch

I was crushed between Altgeld and Armour.
I lost many friends, much time and money
Fighting for Altgeld whom Editor Whedon
Denounced as the candidate of gamblers and anarchists.
Then Armour started to ship dressed meat to Spoon River,
Forcing me to shut down my slaughter-house,
And my butcher shop went all to pieces.
The new forces of Altgeld and Armour caught me
At the same time.
I thought it due me, to recoup the money I lost
And to make good the friends that left me,
For the Governor to appoint me Canal Commissioner.
Instead he appointed Whedon of the Spoon River Argus,
So I ran for the legislature and was elected.
I said to hell with principle and sold my vote
On Charles T. Yerkes' street-car franchise.
Of course I was one of the fellows they caught.
Who was it, Armour, Altgeld or myself
That ruined me?

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Henry C. Calhoun

I reached the highest place in Spoon River,
But through what bitterness of spirit!
The face of my father, sitting speechless,
Child-like, watching his canaries,
And looking at the court-house window
Of the county judge's room,
And his admonitions to me to seek
My own in life, and punish Spoon River
To avenge the wrong the people did him,
Filled me with furious energy
To seek for wealth and seek for power.
But what did he do but send me along
The path that leads to the grove of the Furies?
I followed the path and I tell you this:
On the way to the grove you'll pass the Fates,
Shadow-eyed, bent over their weaving.
Stop for a moment, and if you see
The thread of revenge leap out of the shuttle,
Then quickly snatch from Atropos
The shears and cut it, lest your sons,

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Sexual Soup

A man so sick that the sexual soup
cannot save him -

the chicken soup of sex
which cures everything:
tossed mane of noodles,
bits of pale white meat.
the globules of yellow fat
like love...

But he is a man so sick
no soup can save him.

His throat has healed into a scar.
Rage fills his guts.
He wants to diet on dust.

I offered to feed him
(spoon by spoon)
myself.

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poem by Erica Jong
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Wallace Ferguson

There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above
The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown
Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone
Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock;
And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor
Of dancing water under a torrent of light;
And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau
Was the silent music of all we saw or heard --
There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less
Because I could not link myself with the I of yore,
When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River?
Nor remember what I was nor what I felt?
We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by.
Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death,
And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc,
What do you care if you know not yourself as the you
Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth
Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished?

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Wonky Spoon Cafe

She makes a decent apple pie
at the Wonky Spoon Cafe
where eggs are easy over
and chips all deep fat fried.
Full English breakfast every day,
the bacon is real good
but how she scowls is scary
and turns folk off their food.
She makes the cream turn sour
and customers all cringe
as they slurp their mugs of tea
and eat their mushy peas.
Her face can scare most patrons
but worse, far worse than this
her husbands manic chortles
can cause their bums to hiss.
So if you'd like a pasty,
don't try the Wonky Spoon
for though the food is passable
the atmosphere is cruel.

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poem by Ruth Walters
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Harry Carey Goodhue

You never marveled, dullards of Spoon River,
When Chase Henry voted against the saloons
To revenge himself for being shut off.
But none of you was keen enough
To follow my steps, or trace me home
As Chase's spiritual brother.
Do you remember when I fought
The bank and the courthouse ring,
For pocketing the interest on public funds?
And when I fought our leading citizens
For making the poor the pack-horses of the taxes?
And when I fought the water-works
For stealing streets and raising rates?
And when I fought the business men
Who fought me in these fights?
Then do you remember:
That staggering up from the wreck of defeat,
And the wreck of a ruined career,
I slipped from my cloak my last ideal,
Hidden from all eyes until then,

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Several oranges

At what age does the recognition dawn
that grown-ups aren’t quite as bright
as they would like – and would like you –
to think?

An early proof among the many
was marmalade – the stuff best tasted
when licked off the marmalade spoon, or
if Mom tried to make it (big wooden spoon) or
scraped off stodge pudden at your school…

and best, the one that came in brown stone jars
because that was cheaper; lettered in black
to say it came from Keiller’s; and was made
from several oranges, so grown-ups said…

well, how obvious can you get? A big stone jar
or even a glass jar, was bigger than a single orange..

and couldn’t grown-ups spell either?

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Spoonful Of Sugar

Once and often, my mother said
Don't let flattery fill your head
A spoon of sugar is scarce enough
To give for free, such special stuff

Words are words, and nothing more
No reason to unhinge the door
Take heed and never give in haste
Else passion wilts and goes to waste

Day by day and night by night
Arriving with the speed of light
Slather spills across the wires
A rage contrived to flame the fires

But fire's just fire and flame just flame
If nothing more than foolish games
And nothing aches more than the burn
Of a heart aflame, and left to yearn

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poem by Leria Hawkins
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Henry Tripp

The bank broke and I lost my savings.
I was sick of the tiresome game in Spoon River
And I made up my mind to run away
And leave my place in life and my family;
But just as the midnight train pulled in,
Quick off the steps jumped Cully Green
And Martin Vise, and began to fight
To settle their ancient rivalry,
Striking each other with fists that sounded
Like the blows of knotted clubs.
Now it seemed to me that Cully was winning,
When his bloody face broke into a grin
Of sickly cowardice, leaning on Martin
And whining out "We're good friends, Mart,
You know that I'm your friend."
But a terrible punch from Martin knocked him
Around and around and into a heap.
And then they arrested me as a witness,
And I lost my train and staid in Spoon River
To wage my battle of life to the end.

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Last Night (Rondeau Redoublé)

Last night I saw a big white moon
rising slowly, almost with dignity
and the first star said that it would be dark soon
while you kissed me

and together we lay spoon to spoon
melted into each other softly and tenderly,
in loving activity without any modesty.
Last night I saw a big white moon

somewhat magical like in a fairy cartoon
and outside the wind blowing was the only activity
but you had awoken my harpoon
rising slowly, almost with dignity

while you were smiling in glee
and for a moment I felt like a king or a tycoon
while in joy and passion we were free
and the first star said that it would be dark soon

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poem by Gert Strydom
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