A Clown at Midnight: Poems

by Andrew Hudgins

National Book Award finalist Andrew Hudgins offers a meditation on humor, ruminating on the consolations and terrors, delights and discomforts of laughter.

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780544108806
  • ISBN-10: 0544108809
  • Pages: 112
  • Publication Date: 06/11/2013
  • Carton Quantity: 36

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About the Book
About the Author
  • About the Book
    “Recklessness and rigor, in equal measure, mark the stirring poetics of Andrew Hudgins in this fine new book. Hudgins can wrestle a rhyme scheme into submission with one hand tied behind his back and can penetrate the black heart of history with a single, subtly rendered detail. He laughs with Democritus and weeps with Heraclitus and, line by distillate line, contrives a tonic antidote to “the acetone / of American inattention.” — Linda Gregerson

    In A Clown at Midnight Andrew Hudgins offers a meditation on humor with a refreshing poignancy and cutting wit. He touches on love and nature, but at its core this collection is about the consolations and terrors, the delights and discomforts, of laughter, taking its title from a quote by Lon Chaney Sr.: “The essence of true horror is a clown at midnight.” Skillfully probing paradoxes, Hudgins conjures the titular clown: “Down these mean streets a bad joke walks alone / bruised head held low, chin tucked in tight, eyes down / defiant. He laughs and it turns to a moan.” Hudgins gives us utter honesty and accessible verse, exploring moments both uncomfortable and satirical while probing the impulse to confront life’s most demanding trials with laughter.

    “Hudgins’s poems are often funny, hinging on a joke or wisecrack or malapropism, but human nature red in tooth and claw has always been his greatest theme.” — BookPage


  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    A Joke Is Washed Up on a Desert Island

    A joke is washed up on an island,
    miles of coarse, brown grit
    and a few bent palms. He’s thrilled. Alone,
    he’ll stroll the beach or sit
    mulling the gray surf and his life.
    He believes he’s kept the sacred
    sacred by profaning it.
    But words and stories sped
    so quickly from his raucous mouth
    he hardly thought about them.
    Alone, he’ll study doubts he’s had
    since on a dubious whim
    he swaggered into that first brothel,
    first bar and first bar mitzvah,
    first monastery. What angry hope
    or compulsive mania
    flung him on the judgment of friends
    and strangers: a laugh or silence?
    He’d never paused to mull things over,
    and though thinking’s a nuisance,
    it’s time to think. He sits, considers,
    and the teasing sea deposits
    a naked beauty at his feet — 
    a movie star. Huge tits?
    Or small? Full lips or thin? You
    Whatever turns your crank,
    that’s what floats up. And then two more,
    beautiful, blond, and blank.
    They swirl around him, asking, “Is that
    a banana in your pocket?”
    Smart women whoring for a joke!
    And all at once he gets it:
    the human cost of laughter. It pains him.
    The people he’s offended,
    they’re human, unlike him, a concept
    he’d never comprehended — 
    a reverie of thick self-pity
    that’s broken by a shout
    of “Help me! Help me!” from the waves.
    Annoyed, the joke swims out
    and finds an armless, legless man
    bobbing in the spray.
    “I’m Bob. Remember me?” Bob shouts.
    The joke saves him anyway.
    The joke has always hated Bob,
    the lamest slip of wit,
    and now Bob’s propped on the joke’s beach,
    choking and spraying spit.
    The joke stares down the empty sand,
    listening hopelessly
    for the peace he’d hoped to find. He drags
    Bob back into the sea.
    At first Bob bobs, but head held under,
    he blubbers, bubbles, drowns.
    This joke’s a killer. He looks out to sea,
    sees what he sees, and frowns.
    The waves are pitching with old punch lines,
    washing, like Natalie Wood,
    ashore. They couldn’t live without him,
    although he’d hoped they could.
    As each one staggers from the waves,
    it asks, “Where’s Bob?” The joke
    says, “He’ll turn up.” Why are they asking?
    Who cares about that jerk?
    He’s got to blow this island, man.
    He jumps into the sea.
    But he’s my joke. I send a shark
    and the shark chomps off one knee.
    He keeps on kicking at the waves.
    The shark chomps off both legs.
    “Very funny!” screams the joke. “So now
    I’m Bob. Come on,” he begs.
    “Let me be Art!” Tear out this page
    and pin it to your wall:
    He’s Art. Or throw it on the floor.
    Bingo, he’s Matt. Your call.
    But I like the turning point of jokes.
    He’ll bob, but he won’t sink.
    Let’s leave him there to meditate.
    The shark will help him think.
    Three pale blonds gather on the beach
    to watch him flail. In moonlight
    their roots turn dark, their hair turns black.
    Their eyes are old-moon white.
    Birth of a Naturalist
    Among moist bromeliads
    I was bored, and the soft-fingered
    ferns annoyed me like an aunt
    touching my face and trailing
    her fingers down my cheek.
    What was I, a possession?
    In the gift shop where I desired
    nothing, a stranger confused
    boredom for balked desire
    and bought me a small pot
    with a blunt nub, like a toad’s
    brown snout, jutting
    from dry soil. “Thank you,” I said.
    “Thank you,” as I’d been taught,
    and she departed, a plump whorl
    of black hair and red scarves.
    In my pocket, the pot rode
    my thigh like a damp stone,
    and because it was a secret,
    my secret, I began to love it.
    The next day the toad’s
    tumescent snout, now mossy green,
    cracked the packed dirt.
    On the windowsill a rickety stalk
    rose and kept rising, rising
    until it fell into my bed,
    and with the toppled orchid in my arms,
    I slept until Mother’s laughter
    woke me, and I was shamed.
    Again in secret, I tucked
    its roots in spongy humus
    beyond our lawn, where, spindly
    and limp-leafed, it dwindled.
    Now when I stretch out
    over its absence, the coarse
    vigor of its killers cushions me,
    and I see the lost
    orchid animating bracken,
    buckthorn, buttercup, and bramble.
    Morning glory overclimbs it all,
    green on green, blaring
    its beautiful and murderous
    alabaster trumpets
    while twizzling vines unfurl,
    spin in sunlight, and, clutching,
    caress my face.

    First Year Out of School
    A man . . . may have wild birds in an aviary; these in one sense he possesses, and in another he has none of them.
              — Plato, Theaetetus

    I fingered flannel shirts
    and wrinkled seed potatoes,
    derelict in dusty bins,
    but bought a birdcage,
    white paint peeling off
    corroded wire. For weeks
    it crowded my bedside table
    until, walking to work,
    I heard baby rabbits
    mewing in a hole. Later,
    at my desk, I watched a crow
    ferry three gray lumps
    to an oak limb and pick them
    into red strings. In one
    imagined life, I caught
    that crow and taught it Blake —
    Little Lamb, who made thee?
    In another, I gleaned raw corn
    from nearby fields at night,
    fed it to the strident crow,
    and every night after work
    cleaned its fetid cage.
    In this life, I sold the cage
    for a quarter what I paid,
    and moved to a city where,
    on the street one Monday morning,
    a man chanted, “Spare
    change, spare change,
    spare change,” so rote
    that like everyone before me
    I didn’t bother saying no.
    I was no different. Why then
    did he block my path
    and offer me a matted,
    damp, dark thing —
    a hatchling half held,
    half nestled in his beard?
    And why did I linger over
    the unfledgeable lump?
    “No,” I said, pushing past,
    but after an hour I returned
    and with five grubby ones
    paid for the epiphany
    he’d led me to: I yearn for flight,
    but believe in the two
    reliable slow feet
    on which I stood, receiving
    from his hands unto mine
    a gasping, unsalvable mouth.
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