Poems by Vern Fein

SCRABBLE OR DEATH

Five old ladies, playing cards,
canasta and pinochle and spades.
One time my aunt slipped a deck
of nude cards into the game,
made my Grandmother and the ladies
titter and feign shock and disgust.
Would've thought their lives
were prim and pristine,
but we all knew better.

But that was a sidebar.
Scrabble was the main battlefield,
played for money, nickel a point.
Could get really steep.

Each got her own dictionary,
so heavy my teen self
had to carry them
in and out of the cars
to set up the match.

Every week the same results,
Grandma, Aunt, neighbor Marge,
Mrs. Balk and her daughter, Anne,
only missed if  truly ill.

The inevitable always occurred,
particularly when close at the end.
One lady would play a strange word
she found in her own dictionary.
Dispute! Everyone grabbed her resource.
"It ain't in mine, Rose."
"Nor in mine," yelled  Anne.
"But it's in mine, “ cried Rose.
Back and forth.

Irreconcilable, the anger flared,
friendships and gossip on hold.
Some stomped out, even
left their tomes behind.

But an old friend would get sick,
someone they knew would die,
a pet would run away,
prices would rise,
and the old friends
would return to fight again.

"Za," my aunt would contend,
is not a word for pizza!"
"But it's in my book!”
said her mother.

A word among friends
can go either way.

 

OH SUSANN!

A reflection on Jacqueline Susann

Critics say you were an awful writer,
the queen of potboilers
with your specious Valley of the Dolls,
but there is a backstory.

A failed actress with a stormy marriage,
an institutionalized son, breast cancer— 
three times became NY Times number one,
sold the most books in publishing history,
birthed a movie of immense success.

After cancer discovered,
bargained with God to bestow
another decade and you believe
He granted you twelve years
to do what you promised before you died
from that dreadful disease at 56.

To you literary snobs,
as you assess the great works of art—
Novels; Dostoevsky, Dickens, Woolfe,
Music: Bach, Beethoven, Clara Shumann, 
Art: Rembrandt, Goya, O’Keefe,
Poetry: Ovid, Shelly, Byron, Eliot—
a list as long as the imagination.

Who was the real Jacqueline?
A female writer who signed every copy
sold at every bookstore
in cities across the nation.
Wrote the name and address down
of every fan and sent them a personal thanks.
Even bought pastries to sweeten the lives
of all the unsung people behind the scenes
who labored to sent those books into the world.
Jacqueline, your tragic characters
popped those uppers and downers,
the Dolls of your book
before they went
to the bottom of the Valley.

You were the real doll,
a sensitive woman
who cared about others.
Style be damned.

Oh, Susann--I cry for you.