11 years since he shot a man, 12 more since he shot the movie

Last night I watched 'The Unforgiven', a Clint Eastwood picture which earned Best Picture and Director in 1992. Interesting thing about that--I had been taken, along with the rest of my fellow students at running camp, to the theatre to see it shortly after it was released. We had been shipped up to Northern Michigan for seven days of uninterrupted brutality in the form of distance running, and this was to be our moment of relaxation. Well, being stubborn, I decided I did not want to go see it. As this was clearly not an option, I instead put my head between my legs and left it there for all 131 minutes of the picture plus previews. At the time it seemed like my only option, and if it was a bit ridiculous, it did allow me the pleasure of seeing, if not hearing, it for the first time yesterday evening. I don't know if I loved it, but then, I've never really been much of a Clint Eastwood fan. I guess in some way I ought to appreciate the ethos of the "Western" that he so readily channels. The movie actually reminds me of a poem I wrote in college. Blank verse, I believe it is (slightly edited now)...


It makes a lovely flower pot

There are no more stone cowboys in the West

No bulletholed pianos played half-tuned
against the drunken ramblings at the bar
can stir unshaven heroes to revenge

No carbines smoking endless flame and pitch
until the cloud of rage and death has passed
can resurrect this most familiar scene

The lynching tree is now a well-trimmed hedge;
art deco topiary near a pool
And so with every wide-eyed, youthful stab,
the horse of our invention turns up lame