The Bartender
He seemed a little out of place when he walked in that night.
The bar was pretty crowded, it was nearly 10 p.m.
He slid a little money on the bar and grabbed a beer,
then found his way to where the smoke was thick and light was dim.
I’d never seen the guy before. He looked a bit uneasy.
He slowly twisted off the cap then took a hefty drink.
I watched him rather closely, as he sat there, all alone,
just starin’ at the table, an’ I’ll tell you what I think.
I think the guy was feelin’ kind-a low. He looked—defeated!
It wasn’t long before he flagged the barmaid for a hit.
And for about an hour more he kept ‘em right on comin,’
but still, somehow—the way he poured ‘em down just didn’t fit!
He looked as though he’d given up—like ‘Life’ had let ‘im down.
He’d sit and stare, then briefly swing his head from side to side.
Then, softly lit by neon lights, immersed in clouds of smoke,
I watched the poor young fella as he broke right down an’ cried!
This was not the first time that I’d seen a man in tears,
but as he sat there, all alone, it almost broke my heart.
I’ve seen this kind of thing before, but never quite like this,
and I could only wonder what it was that made him start.
Maybe someone close to him had died, or fallen ill.
Maybe he’d been cheating, and his wife had found him out.
Maybe he’d discovered that his wife had been unfaithful…
But as I sat there wonderin’ what the tears were all about,
I turned and asked a local patron—one I thought might know—
“Ever seen that youngster, gettin’ drunk there, in the back?”
“Yes, I have,” the old guy answered… “that’s the boy from Wilton.
He’s the one that just returned from serving in Iraq!”
Mark Stellinga is a poet and antiques dealer residing in Iowa. He has often won the annual adult-division poetry contests sponsored by the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop, has had many pieces posted in several magazines and sites over the past 60 years, including Poem-Hunter.com, PoetrySoup.com, and Able Muse.com—where he won the 1st place prize for both ‘best poem’ of the year and ‘best book of verse.’
A poignant piece, Mark. In the past we tended to think that those returning from war could somehow put it all behind them and carry on, especially those who were in the thick of it. We know that’s not true.
One of my wife’s relatives was a soldier, working as an interpreter. This poem could have been written for her.
Thank you, Paul – both one of my older brothers and brothers-in-law still unknowingly expose, every now and then, little indicators of what that war did to their psyches. We all try to ignore it.
This poem may represent those with PTSD but not me. The war in Vietnam for me was exhilarating, exciting, and enhancing to my senses. Yes, I was shot at by land driving myself across the Delta on my missions), river (the Bassac River was a distributary of the Mekong and I was in a boat with five Vietnamese I was advising, and air (by helicopter from the province of Kien Hoa) but I trusted my judgment and the hand of God on my undertakings. I often called my time there a vacation. I can understand the sentiments in your poem of those not so inclined.
You’re the first person I’ve ever encountered, Roy, that perceives his life-or-death war battle engagements as a ‘vacation’. 🙂 ‘Exhilarating, exciting, and enhancing to your senses’, of course, but a vacation!! You’re one tough cookie.
Mark, I have written a poem with that title and may try to get it published for Memorial Day.
These are good, rugged heptameters that suit the subject, and the bartender’s voice is exactly right in tone and diction. Also, we as readers are given a picture of intense sorrow, but the source of the emotion is revealed clearly in the last line.
Thank you, Joe, for sharing your perspective on my sad little narrative. It was inspired by a couple of my family members, both of whom spent several months in Nam. Little reminders of how it ‘changed them’ still surface now and then. 🙁
Happy New Year late –
Thank you very much Mark,
for highlighting this so eloquently
and its not simply former soldiers..
I am deeply concerned by the isolation and disorientation of most young men..
where are all of the fraternities through which they used to find role models, mentoring and companionship?
We need to get them back.
warmest regards,
Karen
(wife, mother former teacher and home educator)
The inspiration for this piece, Karen, stems from having to cope with a couple family members’ struggles with PTSD, brought on by their experiences in Vietnam, and I share your concern for the ‘isolation and disorientation’ of so many young men today. Thank you for your insightful comment.
I like the way the poem is written in smooth, chatty, relatable language. I was right there at the bar… and I didn’t see the reveal coming, which made it feel like a stark, punch-in-the-gut reminder of the savagery of war and its effect on young soldiers. Well done and thank you, Mark!
Mission accomplished, my dear, and a ‘well done’ from you, young lady, always improves my disposition – which Connie will attest to. 🙂
This piece invariably triggers something I’ve never managed to forget — seeing my older brother and a handful of other local teenagers board a plane bound for Vietnam. 🙁
Our best 2 U & Mike.
Susan — I once asked my paternal Aunt Rose about the relationship difficulties I tended to have with my father. She sympathized, and said this: “Joey, you have no idea what a different man your father was before he went to war.”
Joe, I am so sorry to hear this. I know your Aunt Rose’s words to be true from the my grandfather and many great uncles who fought in WWII. A dear nonagenarian neighbor in England told me her father, who fought in WWI, was over the moon he had a daughter and not a son… and stopped right here. No more children. He couldn’t bear the thought of sending a son to war. Rudyard Kipling is proof of just how difficult it is to bear the burden of the death of a son who died in battle, and those who have only experienced the horrors of war through another’s eyes can never fully appreciate the sheer hell of it.
… and Mark, it must’ve been tough seeing your older brother and his ilk setting off for Vietnam. Mike suffered the same angst with his big brother and I know how it impacted the whole family. Often those in power pay little heed to the consequences of their decisions to go to war, giving more attention to the profits made from selling arms and gaining land… sadly. It makes me sick to my stomach to see how freedom paid for in blood is being squandered by those who have no idea what liberty means. Once again, thank you for your poem.