The Record Poetry Book by The Yale Record

Vol. 149, No. 7

THE YALE

Aug. 11, 2021

RECORD the poetry book

e’ve all grown a lot over the past year. I could go into some gushy spiel about how the pandemic taught us important lessons and whatnot, but I meant that literally. Here at the Record, a lot of us got our first period, or had our first communion, or finally stopped asking for a kids’ menu. No matter how big or small our achievements were, I’m proud of everyone. I’m especially proud of our first-years, who I haven’t known for long, but who have demonstrated a lot of courage in the past few months. They were so brave, in fact, that when we stopped serving chocolate milk at meetings, most of them didn’t even cry. So, I knew that when we were planning our last issue of the year, I should leave it up to them. And just as I thought, these kids were bursting at the seams with ideas. It turns out that they had all just taken a class called “Advanced Placement English Literature,” and so they knew about all these different forms of writing. At first, they suggested we put out a standardized test and make our readers pay to take it. I told them that I loved the idea, but then it turned out they were just joking because they wanted to expose which of the upperclassmen were nerds in high school. God, they’re so clever for their age.

After the entire Record staff finally settled on calling me “Nerdy McNerdFace” and laughed at me for twenty minutes, we finally decided to expand our horizons and explore a new form—poetry. While I didn’t know much about the form, I was excited to learn. It was about time that we shook things up here at the Record, much like how the pandemic shook up my life and no one else’s. So, I bought a couple of poetry compilations and dropped them off in the Record office for everyone to share. We had a number of meetings—one meeting, to be exact—to learn about the craft. We read and read and read, and then we got tired of reading and watched Dead Poets’ Society, and then we figured out which character we all were. I thought I was like the creative, nonconformist, fun Mr. Keating, but everyone else insisted that I was the old, mean headmaster who made everyone follow a bunch of rules. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the hair. With all the reading and watching and critical film analysis out of the way, we decided we were ready to write some poems of our own. I told everyone to let their hearts sing and their souls shine, and then I made a note to put that phrase somewhere in the issue. Everybody amazed me with their skill, and I was so happy that despite all the challenges of this year, the Record was still going strong. But then I realized that my time as Editor in Chief was nearing its end. I was sad that I had to leave everything behind, especially when we were doing so well, but I was mostly sad because the entire staff hadn’t pitched in to buy me a going away present. I didn’t want anything special, just like a house or a car or something. I left our last meeting carrying my box of things with my head down. Then one of the underclassmen said, “Kaylee, wait!” and stood on the table. Soon everyone else followed suit, as they all shouted out my favorite line of poetry, “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” I tearfully said the only words that could perfectly encapsulate how I felt about the sweet gesture— “What are all your names again?” And just like that, I left. A few days later I put together that it was a Dead Poets’ Society reference, and they were trying to give me a Mr. Keating moment. But that was after I kicked them all off the Record for being too rowdy, so I guess I wasn’t the cool teacher after all. I felt kind of bad that I depleted our staff and left the incoming Big Four with nothing, and that I crushed the dreams of all the underclassmen who showed so much promise, but that’s not really my problem anymore. For now, enjoy the poetry of all those crazy rulebreakers. I’ll be off trying to destroy another college humor magazine from within. —K. Walsh Editor-in-Chief

Harry Rubin ’22 Chair

Kaylee Walsh ’22 Editor in Chief

David Hou ’22 Online Editor in Chief

Will Cramer ’22 Publisher

Clio Rose ’24 Online Managing Editor

Joe Wickline ’24 Online Managing Editor

Jonas Kilga ’23 Managing Editor

Diana Kulmizev ’23 Managing Editor

Sam Leone ’23 Managing Ediitor

Ayla Jeddy ’23 Design Editor

Avery Mitchell ’23 Design Editor

Ellen Qian ’23 Design Editor

Zosia Caes ’22 Copy Editor

Zuri Goodman ’22 Webmaster

Raja Moreno ’23 Webmaster

Alex Taranto ’23 Art Director

Bea Portela ’24 Staff Director

Jacob Eldred ’24 Business Manager

Madelyn Blaney ’21 Old Owl Luna Garcia ’22 Old Owl

Rosa Chang ’22 Old Owl

David McCowin ’21 Old Owl

Caleb Cohen ’21 Old Owl

Marcy Sanchez ’21 Old Owl

Ethan Fogarty ’21 Old Owl Maya Sanghvi ’22 Old Owl

Sarah Force ’22 Old Owl Amanda Thomas ’21 Old Owl

Staff: Colin Baciocco ’21 Marty Chandler ’21 Paige Davis ’21 Lindsay Jost ’21 Jamie Large ’21 Alec Zbornak ’21 Ronak Gandi ’22 Ryan Fuentes ’22 Alex Kane ’22 Sam Karp ’22 Kyle Mazer ’22 Jocelyn Wexler ’22 Addison Beer ’23 Avery Brown ’23 Juan Diego Casallas ’23 Raffael Davila ’23

Lucy del Alamo ’23 Shirshak Gautam ’23 Dory Johnson ’23 Zoe Larkin ’23 Charlotte Leakey ’23 Jacob Kaufman-Shalett ’23 Andrew Kornfeld ’23 Jason Salvant ’23 Lucy Santiago ’23 Helen Tejada ’23 Katia Vanlandingham ’23 Amrita Vetticaden ’23 Lisbette Acosta ’24 Erik Boesen ’24 Elijah Boles ’24 Alexia Buchholz ’24 Evan Cheng ’24 Finn Gibson ’24

Adriana Golden ’24 Will Gonzalez ’24 Cam Green ’24 Joe Gustaferro ’24 Benjamin Hollander-Bodie ’24 Aarjav Joshi ’24 Alice Mao ’24 Simi Olurin ’24 Chanwook Park ’24 David Peng ’24 Michael Steinthal ’24 Arnav Tawakley ’24 Sarah Teng ’24 Miguel Von Fedak ’24 Joanna Wypasek ’24 Annie Lin ’25

Special thanks to: Iambic pentameter, because we love to follow rigid rules Front cover: Ayla Raana Jeddy ’23 (@aylaraanaway) who used to love bees. Back cover: Ayla Raana Jeddy ’23 (@ayla.r.j) who has asked us not bring up the bee incident again. Founded September 11, 1872 • Vol. CXLIX, No. 7, Published in New Haven, C.T. by The Yale Record, Inc. Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520 • yalerecord.org • Subscriptions: $50/year (print) • $10/year (electronic) All contents copyright 2020 The Yale Record, Inc. The Yale Record is a magazine produced by Yale students; Yale University is not responsible for its contents. Any resemblance to characters and events portrayed herein, without satirical intent, is purely coincidental. The Record grudgingly acknowledges your right to correspond: letters should be addressed to: Chair, The Yale Record, PO Box 204732, New Haven, CT 06520, or chair@yalerecord.org. Offer only valid at participating retailers while supplies last. The Yale Record would like to high-five the UOFC for its financial support.

LIMERICKS There once was a lecture on Zoom That was dead and as dry as a tomb Until it was not When young Brad stirred the pot And decided to quote Harold Bloom There once was a man from Nantucket Whose beard was so long he could pluck it And he said with a grin, as he strummed on his chin “If my ear were a shirt I could tuck it” There once was a man on the moon Who always was shitfaced by noon So he frequented bars And he pissed on the stars Then he slurped it back up with a spoon There once was a poet from Cornell Who couldn’t write poetry or spell He spent too long at frats And his English did lack So hiz pomes kindof sukked There once was a man from Manila Who was sure that his piss smelled vanilla So he peed in the cake Which he brought to a wake But that was quite rude to Godzilla (May his memory be a blessing) There was once a fellow named Sean Who shot up with ‘roids all day long For he wanted to flex, Impress ladies for sex, But his testes were shrivelled and gone There once was a young man named Cass Whose toilet was made of clear glass He plopped down on it And instead of a shit A goldfish fell out of his ass There once was a boy from New Haven Whose face was perfectly Shaven Gillette.

PARTY ROCK BE IN THINE HOUSE THIS EVENING OF THINE LORD Party Rock be in thine House this evening of our Lord; Party Rock be in thine House this evening of our Lord; All assembled shalt enjoy themselves immensely. We shall cause thou to become maddened, We simply long to view you Shake thyself! In the ale house, Party Rock. Searching for a wench? She sitteth upon me. We continue forthwith, Her Ass shaketh intensely. Sister, where is thy mead? I long to know. Hair shirt, taut Habit, Half black, half white. Lying in the Nunnery, Monks won’t blab it. We collect thine Indulgences, And then we indulge in each other! Satan blesseth us, Party Rock, We float to the heavens at the rouse of the Cock. Party Rock be in thine House this evening of our Lord; All assembled shalt enjoy themselves immensely. We shall cause thou to become maddened, We simply long to view you Shake thyself! Each day of our Lord, I’m jigging. On second Thought, her hair shirt does forge a bit of Displeasure, It seems Nuns do not inspire much lustful Leisure. To God I shall devote my meager Life, 6

Since Adultery in the Convent has brought me much Strife. Step above, step below, raise thy hands to the bell’s toll! Step above, step below, raise thy hands to the bell’s toll! Party Rock be in thine House this evening of our Lord; All assembled shalt enjoy themselves immensely. We shall cause thou to become maddened, We simply long to view you Shake thyself! — V. Pavilonis

I AM SO FUCKING SICK OF IAMBIC I am beginning to get sick of this. This rhyming shit is getting fairly old. I try to stop but back in its abyss I fall—Iambic, free me from your hold! I wrote a bunch of sonnets and new plays, and can’t stop writing in this fucking form. I start a new line thinking that the phrase Won’t have a bullshit rhyme, but it’s the norm I cannot write one line without this shit Good God, it just keeps going—o’, I’m stuck! I want to try something new and just quit! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! I am imprisoned by ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG. —M. Chandler

UNTITLED NO. 4 ryan michael miller come downstairs right this instant and don’t give me any sass young man first you don’t do the dishes and now this well you won’t be coming along on the family trip to cape cod this weekend i can promise you that you’re spending spring break at grandma’s and that is that end of discussion no buts and guess what else no xbox for the entire week yes you can still have your phone but you can kiss your xbox goodbye for the next seven days maybe you can use all that free time to think about what you’ve done and why it was wrong i cannot believe you killed your chemistry teacher in a driveby shooting that is so completely inappropriate 9

—C. Anekwe

SONG OF MYSELF 1 I celebrate myself, and hum myself, And what I know true so you shall too, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. My nipples, every drop of my milk, form’d from my diligent study, Born too of my incredible SAT scores, From parents that gave me no advantage in the admissions process, I, now twenty years old and with be-Juuled lungs, Hoping not to cease till death At twenty five. 2 The world of many that toil about, The future senators valiant at (YCC) position stand, The college counselors at duty too, The journalists print daily their queried spams At York and Chapel their utmost truth, With studies directed the men grow studious, Of ancient Greeks, they speak multitudinous, And following them all the knights with their brooms Who make the clean floors that polish bright minds, A mirror for knowledge that thinks itself sourceless. And these sweep inward to me, and I outward ignore them, And such as I am, on the weft of my soul, Of these and of more, I weave the song of myself.

3 I contain so much fucking shit, I contain two medium size ball bearings, A black ballpoint pen with no cap, Approximately one and a half liters of stomach acid, Two lucky pennies (1963 and 1985), An unredeemed gift subscription to the New Yorker, The right to remain silent and to an attorney, Fourteen pounds of A positive blood, Three tangerine White Claws, An unrepentant yearning to live honestly as a green grape, Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary F through H, ACME #9 Machine and Lubrication Oil, two liters, A spicy chicken chalupa from Taco Bell, And more besides. 4 The past and present wilt—I have killed them, strung them, And in them season the game-meat of the future. Am I full of shit? Very well then, I am full of shit. (I am huge, I am so fucking fat.) Who has written his fill? Who will soonest work on Wall Street? Who comes to feed my ego? I will be in your Google searches, I will sleep in your soul, From Facebook status I came and like the Odysseus of Kentucky I go. Look for me on the far side, on the second page, Always I wait for you, just over the heathen’s horizon. 11

—J. Eldred

COLLECTION I Corey in da house, butter on the bread, I want to watch more Corey But Corey’s fucking dead

This corn-on-cob is killing me I weaken with each bite Its bladed kernels slice my teeth I must give up the fight I should have heeded the advice Of my four clever wives When they all warned me not to make A corncob out of knives

i wonder how people felt when edgar allen poe said that’s so raven i wonder how people felt when edgar allen poe died i wonder how people felt when raven symone tried to dig up the body of edgar allen poe i wonder where raven symone is now

Women They be driving Ubers Vroom vroom All over town Hell yeah I love it when women drive Ubers

Which T-shirt is the wettest? Is it Hanes? Is it H&M? What do the judges say? The judges say Hanes is the wettest t-shirt Congratulations to Hanes Annual Wet T-Shirt Contest Winner

gorilla glue my heart together after chimp break it they say “gorilla strongest animal in the jungle” but it is not in body they strongest it is in heart

palms sweaty knees weak arms heavy they call me mr. meat

THE ROAD TAKEN Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I had to pick one, And be the horniest traveler, long I stood And thought of my dreams as long as I could ‘Til I realized, life’s all about fun. I could go where no one’s gone, And travel off the beaten path. But I just want to get it on, Not beat it off alone, come on Count the footprints and do the damn math. And think of the sexiness of it all I can’t go wander on my own. On a road with a population so small, There’d be no hot people, short or tall, Only a fool would choose to wither all alone. I shall be telling this with a twinkle in my eye To my grandkids who will also be hot Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one more traveled by And then I fucked a lot. —K. Walsh

BALLAD OF AN ECON BRO You tried your hand at physics Gave art a college try From English to linguistics Your dreams had gone awry But innocently, you supposed One class could do no damage ‘Cause surely it can’t hurt to know And gain a fair advantage “I won’t sell out,” you proudly said, So surely, it’s ironic That market forces fill your head — You’ll study economics You star a tab on Google Chrome The Goldman Application You swear you’ll use the knowledge To pursue global relations “It’s just a couple years, that’s all!” You’ll fix it from inside! But soon you’ll find a penthouse in New York’s Upper West Side —S. Leone

GO HARD INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT Go hard into that good night, Yalies rave at close of day; Rage, rage under the LED light. Frat bros, kegs of lofty height, Look to party, look to play. Go hard into that good night Drunk bros, grinding, dull and bright, Failed midterms drift away, Rage, rage under the LED light. Lit bros toppling, barely upright, Solo cups and solo they stay, One bro soars, high as a kite. Short bros full of joy and Bud Light, Some read tonight, some go astray Who’s truly right? And you, my dearest bro, Dwight, Pissed in sinks where dishes lay. Go hard into that good night, Rage, rage under the LED light. —A. Beer

THE BULLDOG Once upon a midnight dreary, as my eyes were growing bleary, My readings long and research looming, I was trying not to snore. I was working in the Buttery, and my lids were getting fluttery, My speech was growing stuttery as the words began to bore. And then came a scratching, scratching as the words began to bore. Scratching at the basement door. Lost were Drew, Quentin, and Rose, all gone, gone away to Toads But my pset was almost due and from broomball I was sore. Alone I sat with my decision, to my suitemates’ much derision And I heard a new collision up against the basement door. I was alone nevermore; there was someone new to be embarrassed for The stranger crashing against the basement door. I went to check in on this guy, if nothing else, to just say “Hi,” Maybe he could help me learn about the Afghan War. But much to my shock and surprise, the figure there who met my eyes wasn’t nearly half my size. So much less and so much more Waiting for me in the hall was the dog I so adore This crouching creature by the door. This little fuzzy mystery man went by the name of “Handsome Dan” He sat there still and watched me from the Buttery floor. On a bone the beast was chewing, no doubt free from public viewing, “What was he here doing, in the basement of Davenpor’?” I wondered when I saw him sitting, out of place like a dinosaur. This furry mascot on the floor. As I tried to solve this puzzle, another whimper from his muzzle. And from his place upon the floor, Dan whispered to me “Fuck you, whore.” 17

Was he but an apparition, summoned by my drained condition To make me question my admission? If that is what he is for I’ll show that judgemental mutt back out the door. I’m already plenty insecure. “How dare you speak to me this way, with the tuition that I pay?” I asked, but Dan scoffed like I was some unwieldy chore. I had thought that I was witty, but Dan was the one being shitty. So now I wallow in self-pity, self-pity down into my core. This condescension was a crime he would have to answer for. But Dan said only, “Fuck you, whore.” The following silence was so long, I asked the dog, “Did I do wrong?” Was it the Chex Mix I stole from a convenience store? Or when I got with Drew’s friend Lou, the one whom she’s super into, At that mixer with Sig Nu? And I had done so much more, I have too many drunken crimes worth repenting for. And Dan responded “Fuck you, whore.” This time was the final straw, he could hide behind no man nor law. There was no doubt about it now, now like never before I was coming at this bitch, the Buttery manager was no snitch They’d find his body in a ditch, and there he’d lie forevermore. I leaped t‘ward him: the most valuable game I could score, To this he whispered, “Fuck you, whore.” It could not have ended well, seeing as Dan is jacked as hell. But up my sleeve was one thing more, a trick he would be falling for, I started to apologize, but Daniel saw straight through my lies. He would not empathize, instead he opted for more gore. So he pummeled me, pummeled me into the floor. 18

All the while screaming, “Fuck you, whore.”

I must admit it was not shocking, he said nothing else while we were talking. But to me it was surprising when he brought out his inner carnivore. ‘Twas on my leg that he was munching, I could hear bone fragments crunching I could see that he was lunching, lunching as if I were a tasty boar. As I faded into darkness, darkness now forevermore He ended my life with, “Boola Boola, bitch.” —A. Jeddy and C. Rose

HAIKUS hello, dirty boy. you look like an everything bagel, with cream cheese voice of the Lorax star of Twins and Matilda Danny DeVito the moon is like cheese but just metaphorically fuck, that’s simile luminescent moon? overenthusiastic. you just reflect sun people love haikus especially white people appropriation yale record dot org costs 15 dollars a year the best domain name oh gorilla glue it’s good to use as lip balm mmmmm! mmm mmm! mm m! homoerotic firefighters extinguish flames but ignite my heart <3

SONNET 18 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s afternoon? Thou art more miserable and more dejected: A woman did make my father swoon, And rain’s increase left my ice cream cone affected: Sometime “thou needeth to get o’er ‘t”, Father insists And as the vein in his head grew, so flew the spittle from his lip. And every affair at the fair most certainly persists “Just get o’er ‘t? Is that how thou feeleth about our relationship? When thy slumbereth an eternal summer with my sister? Thou wilt lose possession of my bosom and this fair child.” Father retorted, “At least I still did feel something when I kissed her.” Just as mother’s face blazed scarlet, father’s bashfully beguiled. So long as Father can offend or his eyes disparage, So long thou remind me why I’ve sworn off marriage. —J. Kaufman-Shalett

THE BREAKUP SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK S’io credesse che mio italiano fosse impressionante, Sarei idiota apparentemente. I guess I’m the dumbass For learning Italian to attract girls. I know now that Pronouncing “bruschetta” correctly is worthless. Quoting Dante isn’t hot, either. Tried it. Failed. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table. And since we’re on the subject, why might he be Etherized? Perhaps to numb the pain of the words Spoken by a thoughtless woman Who broke his heart in two? Anyway. Let us go to my parents’ house, And eat my mother’s tuna casserole And meet my childhood dog, Bailey Then let’s away to half-deserted streets Where you can randomly start an argument About my “emotional availability” Which somehow leads you to the question… Oh, “What are we?” Yes, Let us go and make our visit. In my life the women come and go They want my subscription to HBO. Was it worth it to go to your friend Jenna’s 5K After I said that I didn’t like that kind of thing? And then to be like, “So you hate my friends?” That is not what I meant at all; 22

That is not it, at all. And then I saw the moment of my greatness flicker, And in short, I was afraid. Fear, the ever-present third in our relationship. Do I dare Disturb your universe? Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach, Especially when you conveniently remind me of Their sugar content as I engage in What you call “mindless snacking?” Don’t think I’m ever taking you back After all that gas you lit. I’m moving on to a new demographic: mermaids. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves There may be a barrier, Environmental and biological, But they don’t go to fucking 5Ks. —J. Gustaferro

A DINER’S SOLILOQUY To eat Chipotle or not to eat, that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the gut to suffer The slings and arrows of salmonella-riddled lettuce Or take spoons against a sea of queso And by spilling all, end it. To dine, to eat; To eat, perchance to solidly excrete––ay, there’s the rub: For in that joy of sofritas, what shame may come When we have shuffled through this mortal E. coli Must give us pause––there’s the listeria tainting That makes calamity of so long bathroom lines. For who would bear the whips and scorns of corn salsa, Th’pico de gallo’s wrong, the proud steak’s contumely, The pangs of dispriz’d beans, the sour cream’s delay? None but he who grunts and sweats under a weary life, The brave diner who doth make cowards of us all, Smilingly casting forth $1.95 extra for the guac, Bearing those ills that place the gas into gastronomy, Knowing the risk of food poisoning, And knowing the poison can be sweet! —A. Golden

COVID TEST I drive the swab up nostril wide, Wince hard, ignore the pain I push it deeper, deeper still Until it scrapes my brain I feel it touch a spongy place That grayish mass behind my face But then I see a babbling brook, And all the roads I never took A flash of color - deeper still! The smell of sulphur - deeper still! The cochlea, my swab has found, And I can hear a ringing sound The other nostril, just the same And not a lick less odd I poke my mind and soon I find I’m face to face with God These days I never need a drink For when my life is dull I simply take a COVID swab And jam it up my skull —J. Wickline

COLLECTION II rico nasty rico take a shower rico use that nice soap you know the one with the nice almond smell yeah exactly that one rico no longer nasty rico clean reaganomics keep my wallet — and my dick fat reaganomics trickle down — yeah i did that reaganomics so juicy — make me quick cash reaganomics systematically disenfranchises minorities to demonize them — yeah baby nut is that when is that when you— no don’t say it baby nut is that when you n— no don’t say it please baby nut is that when you Dost thou search for thee? In the heart of the club, I am. My flask brims Bub. Mother, if thou enjoy medicinal remedy, know I possess that which we call X. I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love, so come give me a hug if you into getting rub. 26

Dost thou search for thee? In the heart of the club, I am. My flask brims Bub. Mother, if thou enjoy medicinal remedy, know I possess that which we call X. I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love, so come give me a hug if you into getting rub. In Russian We do not say I love you We say Я не открыла урок флирта на дуолинго Which is to say I haven’t unlocked the flirting lesson on Duolingo And somehow It’s just as beautiful I speak for the oaks, I speak for the ash, I spoke to your mom, She paid me in cash roses are red blue men are blue I am bald can I be in blue man group too? big ass big bones big toes big teeth you know who it is mr. meat 27

VLADISLAV NIKOLAI LENIN Mr. Vladislav Nikolai Lenin, Proud husband and father of seven, In his hometown of Svaeker, He worked as a baker, ‘Twas his own slice of Soviet heaven But that same Mr. Vladislav Lenin, Who made pastries from dawn ‘till eleven, Soon grew bored of his bread, So from Svaeker he fled, With poetry his new obsession And said Mr. Vladislav Lenin, To himself with a hint of aggression, “I’ll make it somehow, In that city—Moscow! Goodbye wife, goodbye children, all seven!” Mr. Vladislav walked through the morn’ ‘Till his clothing and shoes were all worn After writing some odes, And refining his prose, Said, “It’s finally time to perform!” Mr. Lenin approached the Red Square, Said, “For cash, I’ve a poem to share!” Then the people said “fine,” And they threw him a dime, Crowded ‘round, and at Vlad they did stare He said, “I am Sir Vladislav Lenin, 28

Ex-husband, ex-father of seven, In my hometown of Svaeker, I worked as a baker, ‘Twas my own slice of Soviet heaven!” The Russkis knew not what to do, And they yelled, as their faces turned blue, “Your limerick’s archaic, Perhaps Aramaic! Here in Russia, the poem write you!” Mr. Vladislav thought it a shame, That in Russia his limerick was lame, “Well, if here I’m an outcast, I’ll move straight to Belfast, And take on an Irish stage name!” In Belfast, the very next day, In the theater right off of Broadway, A show was entitled, “A Poem Recital: By Barnaby Callum O’Shea” —C. Cohen