Open-Door Playhouse
Open-Door Playhouse is a monthly podcast harking back to live radio theater broadcasts. Created to introduce New Plays, New Writers, and… a wealth of unknown talent. Giving them the opportunity to have their works created in sound studios as opposed to live stage productions and presented on the Podcast as “Radio Productions.” Play submissions will be solicited online, outreach centers and word of mouth. Broadcasts will be once a month (to start) and grow as demand requires. Long term goal is to reach out to undeserved writing communities: prisons, school and community groups to provide an avenue to have their voices heard, via plays, short stories or poetry, and to establish Podcast as its own 501c3 organization.To submit your play contact:open-doorplayhouse@gmail.com
Open-Door Playhouse
THEATER 183: Poetry On The Menu
Use Left/Right to seek, Home/End to jump to start or end. Hold shift to jump forward or backward.
Theater #183: Poetry on the Menu Poetry on the Menu
In January 1967, writer/participatory journalist George Plimpton dreamed up a publicity stunt for heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali. He arranged for him to meet Marianne Moore, decorated American poetess – a showman who creates doggerel rhymes, together with one of the finest true poets in the history of the English language. The pair couldn’t be more opposite – He a gigantic, athletic man of color, at his physicalpeak, age 25, not formally educated, a Muslim, loud, charismatic, a showman with the burgeoning edge for social causes and advocacy; She, elderly, age 80, pasty white, doggedly Presbyterian, incredibly well educated, shy, frail and a kind of dowager spinster. Ali’s poems, so called, which predicted his fights, were little more than expanded limericks. Moore’s balletic verses and images won her the Pulitzer Prize, the National Medal in Literature and almost the Nobel Prize. Theirhost that day, Toots Shor, was a rough New York man of Jewish descent, who rubbed elbows, hosted, drank with, and incurred the wrath of entertainment giants of the first two-thirds of the 20th Century: Frank Sinatra, Charlie Chaplin, Ernest Hemingway, Joe DiMaggio, Marilyn Monroe, etc. The meeting only lasted a few minutes and produced a short poem, “On the annihilation of Ernie Terrell,” Ali’s next title foe. The playwright has expanded the meeting in a deeper way, as a one-act play, using snippets of
Moore’s poetry to frame the time, Ali’s immediate and lasting appeal through his pithy quotes uttered over two decades, and foreshadowing his thoughtful future self.
Bernadette Armstrong directs a cast that includes Omari Williams as Muhammad Ali, Anne Cooper as Marianne Moore, Gary Lamb as Toots Shor, and Justice Davis as Kandu.
James Anthony Merolla is the playwright. A journalist with a career spanning four decades, he is also a director. His most recent play is Jane Austen Ruptured My Spleen!
Founded by playwright and filmmaker Bernadette Armstrong, Open-Door Playhouse is a Theater Podcast- like the radio dramas of the 1940s and 1950s. The Playhouse launched on September 15, 2020. At the time, Open-Door Playhouse provided Playwrights, Actors and Directors a creative outlet during the shutdown. Since its inception. Open-Door Playhouse has presented Short and One-Act plays from Playwrights across the country and internationally. In 2021 Open-Door Playhouse received a Communicator Award for Content for the Play Custody and in 2023 the play What’s Prison Like was nominated for a Webby Award in the Crime & Justice Category.
Plays are produced by Bernadette Armstrong, Sound Engineer is David Peters, sound effects are provided by Audio Jungle, and music from Karaoke Version. All plays are recorded at The Oak House Studio in Altadena, CA.
There’s no paywall at the Open-Door Playhouse site, so you could listen to everything for free. Open-Door Playhouse is a 501c3 non-profit organization, and if you would like to support performances of works by new and emerging playwrights, your donation will be gratefully accepted. Your tax-deductible donations help keep our plays on the Podcast Stage. We strive to bring our listeners thoughtful and surprising one-act plays and ten-minute shorts that showcase insightful and new perspectives of the world we share with others. To listen or to donate (or both), go to https://open...
Hello, and welcome to Open Door Playhouse, a theater podcast that celebrates live theater on the podcast stage. I'm Gary Lamb. At Open Door Playhouse, we strive to bring our listeners thoughtful and surprising 10-minute shorts and one-act plays that showcase insightful and new perspectives of the world we share with others. Open Door Playhouse is a 501c3 theater organization. Support for Open Door Playhouse comes from listeners like you. Your tax-deductible donations help keep our plays on the podcast stage. Now playing in Theater 184. Poetry on the Menu. Based on a true incident at Toots Shores Restaurant. Set up and then recorded by writer George Plimpton. Written by James Anthony Marola. Directed by Bernadette Armstrong, starring Omari Williams as Mohammed Ali, Anne Cooper as Marianne Moore, Justice Davis as Can Do, and yours truly, Gary Lamb, as Toot Shore.
SPEAKER_01I can't be beat. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. The man can't hit what the man can't see. Rumble, young man, rumble! Rumble, young man, rumble.
SPEAKER_03They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees. Trying indeed. The secret implies I can stand here. That held steady. One may suit him. None may sit him. Imponderables smite him. Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food. Rest, respite from the ruffians. Celebrity costs privacy.
SPEAKER_02I don't know, Candu. I don't know how that stiff Brit George Plimpton talked me into this. These two are from different worlds. I don't think they are the same species. I know this is great publicity for the place, and God knows, lately I can use it. God damn IRS. But most of my clients don't like this guy. Frank Sinatra hates him. I had to make sure Frank was in Chicago this week before I agreed to this, or he'd have had my head. When he finds out about it, he may never come in here again. I oughta have my head examined.
SPEAKER_00Mr. Sinatra's your oldest friend in New York, Mr. Shore. He would not do this to you. Oh yeah?
SPEAKER_02He did it twice before. Can't afford another. Where Frank and Jackie Gleason go, they all go. Tell him it's a what's the word? A gag? Gag? I might gag. Some gag. Every newspaper in New York is here and the New Yorker magazine. God damn George Plimpton, stiff Brit.
SPEAKER_00Sir, forgive me. But what's the worst that can happen? They are not fighting each other. He is fighting someone else.
SPEAKER_02Not fighting each other? Who the hell knows? No one knows how this night ends. He never shuts up. You had to pull remarks out of Joe Lewis' mouth. They call him the Louisville Lip. That's the first reason they hate him, among a few. And the spinster, she's a recluse, whiter than your suit, and old enough to be his great-grandmother. Worse, she looks like she died in 1959. You know what my problem is, Kandu? I'm too nice a guy. Remember the last time we brought the press in? Yogi Berra, meeting my idol, the great Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway. Yogi Berra? The cartoon character? Ha ha ha! The New York Yankee catcher who says everything so wrong, he's right.
SPEAKER_00Oh yes. The Malopotmaster.
SPEAKER_02Yeah.
SPEAKER_00Like when he gave you directions to his house and said, When you steal fork in the road, take it.
SPEAKER_02Yeah, the accidental genius. And remember when Charlie Chaplin made that scene when he didn't know the secret code to get in the joint and had to wait in line because no one knows who the hell he is without his tramp makeup on?
SPEAKER_00Ah yes. Good times. He said, Your blend delicatessen food better be worth this long wait. And you shouted in the street. Well, I've stood longer in line for your crummy pictures. That was fun. Chaplin, another stiff Brit. But sir. They are both here to write poems, no? The written word has bound opposite cultures together forever. Perhaps they will find common ground in the written word.
SPEAKER_02Common ground at Toots Shores? Like when Marilyn Monroe came in with new husband Arthur Miller, and I forgot to tell her former husband Joe DiMaggio about it? What a mess. DiMaggio never came back.
SPEAKER_00Uh as I recall, sir, he didn't come back after you tried to make him feel better by calling her a whore. I know men.
SPEAKER_02I bought that cheap bastard all his drinks. I was ringside for all the big fights. When Rocky Marciano knocked out Joe Lewis, ha! Those were fighters. This guy fights with his mouth better than his fists. He's fast, but hangs with the wrong crowd. Dangerous guys. I mean guys more dangerous than fighters. I'm surprised that no one has uh Yeah, never mind. Okay, here's the deal. Here's how we are gonna set it up. You walk him in, I'll walk her in. We bring the photographers in to snap a few shots. The two of them, they have a quick, quiet lunch, and we bring the press back in and cross our fingers. A big black cat and a tiny white mouse. What the hell could possibly go wrong?
SPEAKER_00Ha!
SPEAKER_01Ah! This way, please! Mr. Allie! Mr. Allie! Mr. Waiterman, it's not Allie. I'm not some narrow hiding place where you put the garbage cans behind your building. It's Ali. Means worthy of praise. Champion. My apologies, sir. Please, right this way. It's alright. Just tell me your name. I'll pronounce it wrong and then forget it, and we'll be even. Can do.
SPEAKER_00Well then do it. Oh no, sir. My name. The name, it's can do. Oh. I'll remember that. Sounds African. It is, sir. Its origins and mine are from Congo. Congo? Man, what are you doing here? Well, sir, there are no Tootshores in Africa. Not yet, anyway.
SPEAKER_01Maybe someday I'll fight in Africa. I'm the only one who could ever do it. Fight in the bushes. Get my kinfolk all stirred up. Can anyone ever imagine me defending the crown in darkest Africa? And you working in Manhattan?
SPEAKER_00Man, we tip top at Toots. Many of my countrymen draw their strength, sir, from the man who has never accomplished something before. Maybe you should consider it. I will return shortly with the other guest. The other champion. Champion? Poet.
SPEAKER_01Poet? What kind of poet? He better not be better than me. What am I saying? How can he be better than me? She. She better not be prettier than me. What am I saying again? How could anyone be prettier than me? I'm so pretty. The champ has to be pretty. Hardly. You are pretty. She is 80. 80? In years? Is this a joke? Who is she?
SPEAKER_00Why did Plimpton and Herbert Muhammad set this up? She is Marianne Moore, Poet Laureate of the United States, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, the Bullinggen Prize, the National Book Award, the National Medal for Literature, and nominator for the Nobel Prize.
SPEAKER_01Is that all? Slacker. So, she's a real poet.
SPEAKER_00Real. And a real fighter. Like you. Now, if the poor thing can only figure out why she is here exactly and who you may be. She's confused? Her age confuses her? No, sir. She is as sharp as a freshly cut lawn. The circumstances have muddled her. Much like you. Frankly, sir, the two of you are above the usual. Sorted. Mr. Shore thought it would be great publicity for you and Miss Moore, but mostly for him. Mr. Plimpton, who convinced him, will be in the back taking notes for his book. I suspect they will both drink heavily soon after. I suspect they may have started.
SPEAKER_02We ain't here to abuse the elderly. Here, here, Miss Moore. Please. Thank you. Sit. It's the space age. Haven't you dogs figured out how to take someone's picture without blinding them? Don't be alarmed, Miss Moore. You're in good hand. Champ. Welcome to Tootshores. A boxing heavyweight and a literary heavyweight. All right, you decorated canines. They are going to eat alone. Then we open it up to you. Go into the lounge and have a martini. Come on, give them privacy. We'll talk after the magic. You can't get this shit at Saudi's. Miss Moore, what'll you have?
SPEAKER_03Is it possible for me to get uh warm tea, please?
SPEAKER_02Tea? Just tea? Or would you like a special tea? Special tea? Yes. We ship it in from Long Island. In fact, it's called Long Island tea. Frank Sinatra and Jackie Gleason love it. In fact, they invented it. In fact, they bottled it. In fact.
SPEAKER_03Oh no, no, no, too many facts. You have never written a poem, have you, Mr. Short?
SPEAKER_02Poetry? Hell no. I'm a realist.
SPEAKER_03Well, in fact, Mr. Short, poetry is our most real entity. Poetry defines what is real by pointing out what is unreal and imaginary, or creates its sister, or makes the harshness of reality bearable. What you think is real may be a parallel dimension, or you, in fact, may be the protagonist in another being's poem.
SPEAKER_01I am speechless. Really? I have never experienced that.
SPEAKER_03Speechless? That is why you are not a poet, Mr. Shore. All right. I will try your tea, but not too strong.
SPEAKER_02Just enough. And what's for lunch?
SPEAKER_03Just tea, please.
SPEAKER_02Oh, arugula, esoteric arugula. Come again? Esoteric what? Yeah, yeah, well, it'll be a mystery if I can find some. You should eat more arugula. Uh no. I never eat anything that's good for me. Besides, if I do, with all that damn roughage, they'll change my name from toots to toots.
SPEAKER_01Champ? Oh, this is gonna be so much fun. Water, please. No ice, and a bowl of bloody beef soup. Oh, and a phone.
SPEAKER_02Candu. Candu? H2O, Queen's blood, King's Blood. Let's see the sparks fly. What a pair. Beef and arugula. One whispers secrets to the moon while the other shouts them to the sun.
SPEAKER_03Oh. What do they grow on Long Island? This tea is unusual. Very mysterious. Hmm. I would estimate 70 proof. At least that would match the last time I bottled gin for friends during Prohibition.
SPEAKER_01Surprise, surprise.
SPEAKER_03How is your water, Mr. Ali? What? Nice hat. You like it? It's my signature these days and my comfort.
SPEAKER_01It's sharp. I can't wear hats. Never have. Head's too big. Is that a military hat?
SPEAKER_03Yes. Foundationally, its roots are within the army.
SPEAKER_01Oh, I wish you hadn't reminded me of them. Not a big fan of the army. Not sure they're big fans of me. What war?
SPEAKER_03Revolutionary. It's a facsimile. I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not quite that old.
SPEAKER_01Oh, Mrs. Moore. What have you been doing lately?
unknownOh.
SPEAKER_03Well, I have been subduing my apartment. I have just moved in from Brooklyn to a new apartment, which is strange to me and needs taming. I have not actually tamed it yet.
SPEAKER_01Is that so? Are there animals in it? No. Should there be? No reason. You said taming. Yes, we is tip top at Toots. Actually, I am considering farming myself after I stop fighting. I'd like to sit and let the pain in my sore hands recover from all that punching. Let my head clear, looking across a river and a valley. Maybe look across my long wooden fence at the biggest bull in the world, just rocking back and forth, looking at him out there in the middle of the field, snorting and feeding. Rudding.
SPEAKER_03Oh yes, we'd all rut if we could. When you get that farm, may I come and look with you?
SPEAKER_01You can sit on the porch with me, Miss Moore. I love the smell of horses and hay and the sight of their beautiful bodies. I grew up in Kentucky, famous for the Derby. Somehow, it inspired me to train harder so my body could be in condition like that. I'm a stallion. All these other bums are mules.
SPEAKER_03If you are a stallion, I must lift the tablecloth and take a look.
SPEAKER_01Ms. Moore, what are you?
SPEAKER_03Oh, I see. Yes, Mr. Ollie, if you were a horse, you too would be a champion in the thoroughbred class. You are quite good looking. Has anyone ever told you that?
SPEAKER_01Once or twice?
SPEAKER_03I have lived eight decades and no one has ever told me that. I long to hear it just once, even if it was insincere. Relish it each time you hear it. I know it is surface vanity and temporal, but it changes a life. I must ask them, why do you do something which will, whose very goal it is, to ultimately make you ugly?
SPEAKER_01No worries. They have to hit me to do that. No one has yet. It's just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.
SPEAKER_03Well, Miss Rolly, there are many more pleasant things to do than beating people up.
SPEAKER_01Yes, but I believe in the eye for an eye business. I'm no cheek turner. You come at me, I come at you. You kill my cat, better hide your dog. Then again, I'm young, I'm fast, I can't possibly be beat.
SPEAKER_03I see. Well, I'm old playing and I'm blocked occasionally. That's why I ordered the arugula.
SPEAKER_01What? Not those cheeks, Mrs. Moore. You can baffle.
SPEAKER_03I can baffle? Oh, that's revelatory. And this might be the Christian you once were preached cheek turning in a crisis. The black Muslim you are preaches something else, something akin to what you do for a living.
SPEAKER_01What are you saying?
SPEAKER_03My grandfather, John Riddle Warner, was a Presbyterian pastor and preacher. I remain a devoted Presbyterian, and I approach my Christian faith as a lesson in strength vindicated through trials and temptations. My poems often deal with themes of strength and adversity, but the Almighty now punches for me. In my mind, it is not possible to live without religious faith. It is a death before death.
SPEAKER_01Ooh, wee! You're smarter than you look. That little frame holds a mighty big brain. I have faith, I serve God, I pray five times a day. That's why I need my phone. But I'm still sorting it out, Miss Moore. Still grappling over whether you were all white devils, like I was taught by the honorable Elijah Muhammad, present company excluded. Uh-huh.
SPEAKER_03White devils? I thought devils were red. White angels, yes. If you are consorting through devils, I don't think you have found peace.
SPEAKER_01Well, when you can whoop any man in the world, but they still trying to whoop you, you never know peace. Next man up. Still sorting it out. But my toughest fight wasn't in no ring. My toughest fight was with my first wife. Ugh. Do you want your husband fight?
SPEAKER_03I never married. I live alone. I've always lived alone.
SPEAKER_01That's good too. So your apartment ain't the only thing untamed. Yes, sir. Mighty big brain.
SPEAKER_03I'll have you know, I did meet two heavyweight champions once, Rocky Marciano and Floyd Patterson, both in New York, both very nice fellows.
SPEAKER_01Not as impressive as you.
SPEAKER_03They were humble.
SPEAKER_01Well, it's hard to be humble when you're as great as I am. Uh, I whipped Patterson and chopped up Marciano. Rocky wasn't a great fighter scientifically, just a mauler and brawler. One fight, his nose is hanging off him, and he kept coming. Can't put him down, can't teach people to fight like Marciano. He was courageous. Wasn't as great as me, wasn't as beautiful, but I don't know that I would have beaten him like that. Those Italian boys make great fighters, and they're the only kind of whites who aren't afraid to fight the brothers. I'm just playing. My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. The world ought to learn that. It needs to do more truth telling, don't you think, Miss Moore?
SPEAKER_03Yes, that's why I'm a poet. It's my truth. Clear, direct words are truth. A jab is a boxer's truth, isn't it?
SPEAKER_01Yes, it is. A jab is straight and to the point of the nose, like a summons to become real. I once fought a guy named Moore, Archie Moore. Strong old black guy. Former champion. Fu Manchu mustache, older than dirt. He's 50 and still fighting. Are you related? I don't think so.
SPEAKER_03Why? Is there a resemblance?
SPEAKER_01I gave him an extra whooping because he was my first professional manager. I show up to camp and he says, sweep the floor, wash the windows, and I said, I'm gonna be the heavyweight champion of the world. I ain't sweeping floors. He said, you aren't humble enough. I didn't stay two weeks. Then I got to knock him out. That fight made me even more famous than I was. I got famous for calling the round.
SPEAKER_03Calling the round?
SPEAKER_01Predicting what round my opponent would go down. Not only do I knock him out, Mrs. Moore, I pick the round. I did it three times in a row early in my career. Then came Archie Moore, and that was my first famous poem. Listen, chumps, I know the score. Archie Moore will fall in four. And did he? Yes, ma'am. I made sure of it, like you read about. I could have stopped him in three, but I wanted to make my prediction look good.
SPEAKER_03Oh, I see. But but what if his name didn't rhyme with a number between one and ten?
SPEAKER_01Then the press would have a field day because I didn't knock him out like I predicted. It would go to a decision and they'd write, Clay and Moore was not a war. It turned out to be a great big boar. That happened once with Doug Jones. I said I'd stop him in four, then six, but it went the full ten.
SPEAKER_03Oh, I see. When you missed your prediction, how did you explain it?
SPEAKER_01I told the public that four plus six equal ten. Uh-huh.
SPEAKER_03Clay, you said. Clay and more?
SPEAKER_01Yes. That was my name until I became a man. I changed it the night I whooped the big bear Sonny Liston in Miami three years ago.
SPEAKER_03Yes, now I remember. You joined. The nation of Islam and followers ostracized you. You had a beautiful name, a historical name. Cassius Marcellius Clay. Your name was poetry.
SPEAKER_01Yes, ma'am. Sounded lovely. My father named me after himself. I'm Cassius Clay Jr. My sweet mother was sad and my father angry when I changed it. But it wasn't my name. It wasn't his name. It was another man's name, a slave name. I didn't choose it and I don't want it. It was the name of a Kentucky landowner, a planter. Mr.
SPEAKER_03Ali, I am from Missouri, the show me state. I know who Clay was. Are you aware that he became an abolitionist? That he freed his own slaves? That he fought for decades to free all slaves?
SPEAKER_01Well, he may have gotten rid of his slaves, but he held on to white supremacy. Think about it, Miss Moore. Why should I keep my white slave master's name visible and my black ancestors invisible, unknown, dishonored? My mother is hiella.
SPEAKER_03She's what? Hiella?
SPEAKER_01That's what we call light-skinned black women in the South. It means somewhere in the last 300 years, a white man or two raped my mother's ancestors when they was his slaves. Like that was somehow they fault. My opponents still do mention it.
SPEAKER_03They mention your mother's rape?
SPEAKER_01They are darker than me. They look at me, different from the really dark Negroes, and call me half-breed, to get under my beautiful skin.
SPEAKER_03Well, we may write something actual here today, Mr. Ali. We may write something of great worth. So you left your Baptist world in Kentucky and joined a militant, even radical, group who want to take people like me down. Down, right? That's the colloquial phrase, take you down.
SPEAKER_01I did. I did not.
SPEAKER_03You did? You did not. Well, they told me you were a walking contradiction.
SPEAKER_01I did leave my Christian roots and join the black Muslims. I did not want to take people like you down. Since I was a little kid, policemen, managers, promoters, trainers, other fighters, pastors, leaders of movements, even Malcolm X, all telling me what to do. I am 25 now. You know, I'm learning how to think for myself.
SPEAKER_03I believe that takes even more courage than boxing. And that first night as champion, you became Mr. Ali.
SPEAKER_01No. No. That was the next night.
SPEAKER_03The next night? What was your name for the first 24 hours?
SPEAKER_01Cassius X?
SPEAKER_03X? Like Malcolm X?
SPEAKER_01Allah rest Malcolm. Wasn't right what they did to Malcolm. And what they did to Malcolm, they threatened to do to me. I'm still sorting it out.
SPEAKER_03So, you then decided it wasn't a very good idea to have a letter for the last name.
SPEAKER_01Well, you become what you dream. You become what you name. I didn't want to be an ex-champion. See what I did there?
SPEAKER_03Oh, yes.
SPEAKER_01You're cute.
SPEAKER_03So are you. I'll relish that like I do this splendid tea.
SPEAKER_00Mrs. Moore, this esoterica Rugalus is grocery store first. I brought you scissors and a clean bowl as well. Are you certain I cannot bring you anything else from the kitchen?
SPEAKER_03Thank you. No. I'm feeding on dreams, and my pet deer will love this later.
SPEAKER_01I thought you said you didn't have any animals in your apartment.
SPEAKER_03Who said they were in my apartment?
SPEAKER_00Very well. I go to feed another herd. They're Republicans.
SPEAKER_01Feed on dreams. Dreams. The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up, except Ernie Terrell.
SPEAKER_03I read an article where he said he had a dream he would defeat you easily.
SPEAKER_01What? If he even dreamed about beating me, he should wake up and apologize. You better pray for him. He keeps calling me Clay. I'm gonna hit him pop, pop, pop, and shout, what's my name while I'm doing it. Every round to punish him.
SPEAKER_03Oh dear, let's not be grim. I see photos on the wall here of other boxers, other champions. Joe Lewis, Jack Dempsey. These were the greatest fighters in my life.
SPEAKER_01They were?
SPEAKER_03Do you suspect you could defeat them as well?
SPEAKER_01I am the astronaut of boxing. Joe Lewis and Dempsey were wingless birds. I'm a poet, too. That must make me the double greatest.
SPEAKER_03Yes. Thus, my invitation.
SPEAKER_01They tell me you are the greatest poetess in the country. So that's why the two of us should produce something together. A sonnet? Of course. A sonnet, I'm on it.
SPEAKER_03Ha ha ha. I see what you did there. Couplets.
SPEAKER_01What's that mean?
SPEAKER_03We each take a line and make it work. Work through it, rewrite it, preliminaries, like those bouts they fight before you fight in the main event.
SPEAKER_01Preliminaries? Ain't got no time for rewrites. We got a dozen newspapers here with photographers. We must invent this on the spot.
SPEAKER_03Oh my. But Mr. Ollie, I take my time with poetry. I ruminate over poems, germinate. It can take weeks to pen one line. I'm afraid I no longer am spontaneous.
SPEAKER_01Thus the arugula. Don't you worry, Miss Moore. I am. I once wrote the world's greatest and shortest poem.
SPEAKER_03Oh, really? How did it go? We me! What is this opponent like? Is Mr. Terrell a short man?
SPEAKER_01Oh no, ma'am. Very tall. Taller than me, 6'6.
SPEAKER_036'6? Giants! You are both giants! Is he a Negro like you?
SPEAKER_01Ma'am, no one is a Negro like me. Ain't never been a Negro like me. I broke the mold. But yeah, he's colored. Hold on. I got a photo of him. See?
SPEAKER_03He's intimidating. Rougher on the edges. Are you never afraid of such men?
SPEAKER_01Let me tell you a secret, Miss Moore. White folk are much more scared of big black men than black folk are of big black men.
SPEAKER_03Why do you carry his photo around?
SPEAKER_01Getting it ready for the obituary column? Ha.
SPEAKER_02Ha ha. All cozy and tight. Better than planned. Are you ready, Mrs. Moore? I see you haven't penetrated your arugula.
SPEAKER_03Mr. Shore, bring those suckers in.
SPEAKER_02I'll put bells on them.
SPEAKER_01Now, gather round here. Make sure the cameras are working, the film is working, the microphones are on. Don't want no excuses. This is big. Miss Marianne Moore, poet and don't I know it and I, are gonna write a sonnet about my upcoming fight in Houston with Ernie Terrell. Miss Moore and I will show the world with this great poem, Who is Who, What Is What, and Who Is Gonna Win. I've wrestled with alligators, I've tussled with a whale, I've done handcuffed lightning and thrown thunder in jail.
SPEAKER_03We will call it a poem on the annihilation of Ernie Tyrrell. Let us be serious but not grim.
SPEAKER_01She's cute, ain't she? Now, I really don't know why we had to have the two best poets in the world here, Miss Moore and I, to immortalize this bum. Let's look at his record of opponents. Andy Baum, Bum. Ted Poole, Bum. Vernon Clay, Clay, he might be good. But you came for a show, so here we go. After we defeat Ernie Terrell.
SPEAKER_03T Y R.
SPEAKER_01T. E. R. And L. Just getting her pan warmed up. Good. He will catch nothing. Nothing but what's that say?
SPEAKER_03It doesn't say anything. You could call them more preliminaries. Tyrell should rhyme nicely with Belle.
SPEAKER_01No, but hell, Miss Moore. Nothing. Nothing but.
SPEAKER_03Oh yes. Yes! But hell. Let me see. Oh yes. He will get nothing, nothing but hell.
SPEAKER_01Tyrell was big and ugly and tall.
SPEAKER_03Ah. But when he fights Ollie, he will lose his elasticity and wherewithal.
unknownNo.
SPEAKER_03Two of twos. When he fights you.
SPEAKER_01Me, when he fights me.
SPEAKER_03When he fights me, he is sure to fall.
SPEAKER_01Now, let's see. If he criticizes this poem by me and Miss Moore.
SPEAKER_03Uh if he was in earnest, he might be formidable, like Lifestander of Sparta. But he is an Ernie, so he will need an attorney. What?
SPEAKER_01Maybe I should take over. Enough damn lawyers in here.
SPEAKER_03He will be stretched out on a gurney.
SPEAKER_01Ernie on a gurney. Call his attorney. Moving on. He is claiming to be the real heavyweight champ.
SPEAKER_03But when the fight starts.
SPEAKER_01He will look like a tramp.
SPEAKER_03In the firmament, puck stars like Orion with the wilting muscles of a weakened lion.
SPEAKER_01No, no, no. That was Cleveland Big Cat Williams. Knocked him out in three rounds. Tootsure, what did you put in that tea? All right. He has been talking too much about me and making me sore. After I am through with him, he will not be able to even challenge Mrs.
SPEAKER_03Moore. Because that chopped redwood will be on the floor, hollowed out like a tree to its core. To find him, they will need ship to shore. He will be out before the count of four.
SPEAKER_01I think that's enough.
SPEAKER_03No. I have never, ever enjoyed being part of a doggerel so much. What did you call me, Miss Moore? Doggerell. Not a pet. It's what they call good bad poetry. Like limericks or unfinished sonnets, or just did.
SPEAKER_02Okay, okay. Speaking of dogs, there you go, you fourth estate rottweilers. That's front page news. The heavyweight champion of the world and the literary champion of that same world combined to pen a poem on the annihilation of Ernie Terrell and a table for tea for two with Toots Chores. Now that's enough, boys. That's enough, hey. Handu, make sure you copy that poem on a dozen menus and hand them out in the streets. Yes, sir. We got poetry on the menu at Toots. We're gonna frame it. Collector's item. Try to get that shit at Sardi's.
SPEAKER_01Oh, you is famous, Miss Moore. Oh, let me correct that. Famous, sir. Excuse me. One moment. Yes? Herbert? It went well. Very well. Every paper in New York was here. Don't worry. I still got two weeks yet. Angelo always worries. I'll be in Houston summarily. Who showed up? Carrying what? They served you. Can they do that? Well, get the ball rolling, Herbert you my manager. This is the eighth title defense in two years. I can't fight everybody. I can't fight them inside and out. Get our attorney. Tell him if he doesn't get me out of this, I'll put him on a gurney.
SPEAKER_03Mr. Ali, is everything alright?
SPEAKER_01I call my manager, Herbert Mohammed. He's worried I won't get to training camp in time in Houston. Wants me to stop playing in winter in New York with the New York press.
SPEAKER_03I thought you wanted press.
SPEAKER_01Not this kind. You see, Mrs. Moore, your good friends, the U.S. Army, paid a visit. They have papers they want to serve because they want me to serve.
SPEAKER_03They want you? They want to draft the heavyweight champion of the world for, oh Lord, that awful war in Vietnam? You of all people.
SPEAKER_01When? They want me on a plate, Miss Moore. They don't like my politics or my friends or my religion. This has been going on for years. I've had to register for the military when I was nothing, a teenager in Louisville. I was 17. Hadn't even fought in the Olympics yet. April 1960. I took a test, failed it, wasn't ever a good student.
SPEAKER_03You failed the intelligence test for the U.S. Army?
SPEAKER_01Well, I said I was the greatest, not the smartest. I was classified 4F all the time I was a Christian. Couple years later, when I was hanging out around my Muslim brothers and got loud about how this country called me a champion, but won't serve me in white restaurants, won't let me drink out of the same water fountains as them, make me sit at the back of the bus. Well, I got louder and louder, and the funniest thing. Without taking no new test, just like that, I was classified 1A, ready to go to the jungle. And they want to talk about that. Surely they wouldn't. They couldn't. You are the one. They done it to Joe Lewis. Sugar Ray Robinson, a thousand others. Most of the soldiers they send to that hell are Negroes. Press don't cover that.
SPEAKER_03That was World War II necessary, not this Asian travesty. Surely they will make an exception for you.
SPEAKER_01This country ain't ready yet to make exceptions for me or my kind. If I cause a scene outside in the streets of this city and weren't no champ, they'd hose me down and set the dogs on me. Politicians.
SPEAKER_03Will they have an army uniform big enough for you to?
SPEAKER_01I'm sure they will, Miss Moore. They'll make them special. Probably put glitter on them so the Via Kong can see me in the jungle. They'll make sure of that. But I won't go.
SPEAKER_03Won't go?
SPEAKER_01I'm brown, Miss Moore. Those people are brown. I ain't got no quarrel with them Via Kong. No Via Kong ever called me nigger. I'm not ready to fight. I'm not ready to kill. I'm not ready to die. Not over there. I'll die in the U.S.
SPEAKER_03They will brand you coward. They will strip you. They will jail you.
SPEAKER_01They might even As I said, I'm ready to fight and die here.
SPEAKER_00May I get you anything else, madam? Sir? Aspen? A hammock? Nunchucks.
SPEAKER_01No, thank you, Candu. Oh. My man, Candu. Another fine brown man.
SPEAKER_00Mr. Ali, if I may, sir. Most of the patrons who enter here don't speak with me. Except to order or complain. Or order and complain. You have treated me like your own. I thank you, sir.
SPEAKER_01Well, Candu, I don't trust anyone who was nice to me but rude to the waiter. Because they would treat me the same way if I was in that position. Service to others here on earth is the rent we pay for our room in heaven.
SPEAKER_02Candy! Jackie Gleason just bounced in, wants a special tea. Chop chop. Hmm. See what I mean? I do indeed. What'd I do? What do you mean?
SPEAKER_03Mr. Shore, can you escort me over to Mr. Gleason? I really must ask him what he puts in his Long Island tea.
SPEAKER_02Of course. I'll take you to the bar first and just show you the bottle. You sure you wanna know? Champ, are you coming?
SPEAKER_03Just give us one moment, please. The army has recruited at your tables.
SPEAKER_02The army? Colin? Sure. You ain't gonna pull that conscientious objector crap, are you? Religion of peace?
SPEAKER_01I ain't no draft dodger. I won't go to Canada, but I ain't going 10,000 miles to kill poor brown folks. I won't fight. Ha!
SPEAKER_02A fighter that don't want to fight. That's what we are coming to. A fighter who won't fight for his country. You'll go to jail. We've been in jail 400 years, no different. When it's your time to go, it's your fucking time to go, champ. Whether you are in a rice patty or dodging, hooks in the ring from Sonny Liston, or just sitting in front of your house peeling potatoes to feed your family. You never know. Never.
SPEAKER_01There's a time and a place. Allah will choose the time. I ain't letting no boys in Washington choose the place.
SPEAKER_03Mr. Shore, choose your words carefully. When the time comes, stallions can outrun rotting bulls.
SPEAKER_02Until any shit goes down. I'm right behind your bull. You're still tip-top at Toots. Okay. Don't fight in Vietnam. They can't sell tickets. Next time, fight in New York, okay?
SPEAKER_01I am. March 22nd, Zora Folly, Madison Square Garden. It's set. If you beat Tyrrell.
SPEAKER_03Don't worry, Mr. Shore. His opponent's name is Folly. The man has no chance.
SPEAKER_02Not the day any of us expected. I need a cigarette and a shot. I'll be back in a minute for you, Mrs. Moore.
SPEAKER_03Can the champ be beat by Folly?
SPEAKER_01No, by golly.
SPEAKER_03Not Muhammad Ali.
SPEAKER_01Uh can't do. Why does your boss get so angry like that? You just got real poetry.
SPEAKER_00Real. I apologize for Mr. Shore. His father died suddenly when he was four. His mother was his world. Then one hot summer day, she was just peeling potatoes on the steps of the brownstone they lived in in the Bronx. When a truck driver lost control and killed her. He saw the peeler in her outstretched clenched hand. He was 14. When the cooks here peeled potatoes, he could not watch. In fact, a while back, he stopped serving them completely. Time and place. That is also why he emulates the lives of famous men like Sinatra and Gleason and Hemingway, who think a cigarette and a whiskey and a blonde on each arm will stave off death rather than cause it. He is uncomfortable around women of class and elegance and intelligence, like Marianne Moore.
SPEAKER_03Thank you, Kandu. I wrote a poem called Silence once. It mentions those who may be robbed of speech. Delightful speech taken away from them. Have you ever been truly silent?
SPEAKER_01Silent? Me? As I said, ma'am, I pray five times a day. I'm quiet then. But I can't shut my mouth the rest of the time. It's impossible. You saw. I have too much to say. A rooster crows only when it sees the light, but put him in the dark, and he'll never crow.
SPEAKER_03Do you mean talking about social issues, talking just to talk, to make jokes and doggerelle? Worst of all, to hear yourself talk?
SPEAKER_01All of it. Maybe. You only heard me a moment, Miss Moore. I'm the greatest talker of all times. I'm the double greatest fighter and poet, boxer and talker. I bring the game to life. I can't never be silent. Who would ever believe such a thing, Miss Moore? Silence? What fighters or punches could possibly ever silence me?
SPEAKER_03My father also used to tell me, and I agree, that the deepest feelings raise themselves in silence, Mr. Ali. In silence. Someday, after the camera bulbs stop and the press sheath their pens, when you are rocking back and forth in that creaking stelectite chair on that old Kentucky farm you crave, watching the bull rut and the horses flex their veiny thighs in the silence of the noonday sun or the winter curls. Relish the choice of not talking too much, my new friend. But only if it's a choice, only if it is never forced upon you. Don't ever let them force you not to speak. Arenas are very loud. Wars are even louder. Haters are loudest of them all. Our minds were never meant to harness their wretched noise. Don't die or go mute before you guide the running bulls on that farm. Promise?
SPEAKER_01If ever comes a day, impossible as it may be, Miss Moore, when I am silent, I promise I will. That really is a very nice hat. Oh, one more thing. And I mean this most sincerely. You are a very beautiful woman. Oh.
SPEAKER_03What a lovely day with Ollie. My father used to say, superior people never make long visits, have to be shown Longfellow's grave or the glass flowers at Harvard. Self-reliant like the cat that takes its prey to privacy. The mouse with limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth. They sometimes enjoy solitude and can be robbed of speech by speech which has delighted them. The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence. Not in silence.
SPEAKER_02Our plays are produced by Bernard at Armstrong, recorded at the Oak House Studio in Altadena, California, and mixed by our talented sound engineer, David Peters. Sound effects and music downloaded from Audio Jungle. If you are interested in submitting a play for our production, you can find that information on our website, www.opendoorplayhouse.org. Please share this podcast with friends, and do not forget to subscribe so you will be notified when our next production is live. And don't forget, donations to open door playhouse can be made at www.opendoorplayhouse.org.