Winnie #2
I’m so sorry for the confusion about the stanza from my poem “Bacchus.” I wrote my poem in the fall of 1971, and since Lincoln and I live together, we often share our work with each other—a la F.
Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, or Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.
You see, Lincoln admired that stanza so much, he asked if he could use it in a song in the spring of 1972, and of course I said yes.
You accepted the poem in the fall of 1972, and by then I had forgotten about the song, which only became a hit in 1973.
I hope you can understand, and I apologize for what appears to be an unseemly coincidence.
Thank you so much for your time, and for your patience.
Sincerely,
Winifred Hartley
Satisfied that I’d told the truth, I slipped the letter into the blue post office box on the street corner on my way to work.
A week later I opened the latest edition of City of Lights Review while working at City Lights, only to read the following as part of the usual letter from the editors:
Many of you have expressed concern over the fact that Winifred Hartley’s poem “Bacchus” contains 5 lines from the song “Wild Man” by The Cards.
Rest assured, I have written to Miss Hartley to ask about these lines, and I still await her answer.
If the poetess is reading this, I hope she will respond soon, or we shall have no choice but to conclude an act of plagiarism has taken place.
I burned with resentment. How many people were asking, anyway? They couldn’t have waited a little longer before publicly accusing me of plagiarism?
Bernard wandered into my office to find me seething. “Careful,” he said, “or you’ll set that thing on fire with the flames coming out of your nose.”
“Ha, ha.” I handed him the magazine.
“Oh dear,” he said.
I explained the larger story, including the letter I’d sent the previous week.
“Well, that should clear everything up, shouldn’t it?”
“You don’t think it matters that Lincoln didn’t write or even sign the letter?”
“It would have been ideal if he had, but he’s not here, is he? I assume your letter explained that to Mr. In a Rush to Assign Blame?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’m just so mad that they’ve made an unfounded accusation. In the journal, for everyone to see!”
“That’s what you get, my literary darling, for submitting to the snobby journals. They have their precious reputations to protect!”
“Your man of the people routine is not helpful today, Mr. I Want to Direct Hamlet Before I Die.”
“Touché. Well, it’s almost lunch. How about a burrito to calm your nerves?”
The chewy, warm spice of the burrito comforted me enough.
When I got home, I poured myself a few fingers of whiskey on ice, reread the draft of my letter, and felt reassured.
I had to believe that once it reached City of Lights Review, they would print the correction in the next issue and all would be well.
—
In the following weeks, The Cards got another single on the charts and I received rejection letters from two other journals, both of which cited the City of Lights Review “scandal.” In a panic, I even called the office in New York, but the phone only rang and rang without an answer.
When the next issue arrived at work, I practically split the binding I opened it so hard and fast.
Skimming the introductory letter, I found it:
…To follow up on the controversy surrounding “Bacchus,” Miss Hartley wrote to us and explained that in fact her boyfriend Mr. Salyer of The Cards used her words and not the other way around, and that the poem existed before the song.
We have no reason to dispute this, and we thus take the poetess at her word… .
“For crying out loud!” At the next desk, Bernard raised an eyebrow. Again, I handed him the magazine.
He read, then set it down. “It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, is it?”
“And it doesn’t explain any of the nuance of the situation. That Lincoln and I work together, and we…” We what? It was only he who borrowed my words, though of course our ideas intertwined all the time, like the vines in the poem itself.
Even though my name had been cleared, sort of, “The whole thing still stinks of scandal and cheating. We have no reason to dispute! That sounds like they don’t believe me but I’m so unimportant they won’t bother looking into it further,” I said.
Bernard put one of his tattooed arms around me and I very nearly cried, but I sniffled it back and said hoarsely, “At least it’s settled, and I can put it behind me.” The true test will be if other journals continue to reject me.
Which they did. Three more before Lincoln returned, and though they didn’t mention the scandal, I knew that was the problem. My poems were good, and my reputation had been growing.
Had been.
About a week before Lincoln was due to return for a short break before another leg of the tour, he called my office collect. Bernard handed me the phone and told me who it was.
“Hi, sweetheart! I can’t wait to see you soon,” I chirped into the phone.
“You told City of Lights Review I plagiarized your poem?” His tone was icier than I’d ever heard it.
“Of course not. Why do you say that?”
“Because the manager of the band just handed me a copy of the issue where they say I did.”
“I know, I know. But the editor didn’t accurately paraphrase me at all. I explained that we share ideas all the time, that we—”
“Get them to retract this.”
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Let’s just let sleeping dogs lie, Lincoln.”
“But this hurts the reputation of the band. My reputation as an artist.”
“You didn’t seem so concerned with my reputation when I called and asked you to explain things to the editor months ago.”
“I said I’d handle it when I got home.”
“Then the tour was extended, and the editor basically called me a plagiarist in the issue before the one you’re holding right now. I didn’t want to bother you. I thought I did the right thing. It’s not my fault he twisted my words.”
“Then tell him to set the record straight.”
“It’s your turn, Lincoln. You tell him this time. Man to man. Maybe he’ll be more apt to listen to you than to the poetess.”
“I’m too busy, Win. I’m bringing home a wad of fucking cash for us to live on in style finally. Just get this sorted out.”
And before I could answer, he hung up. The dial tone rang like a child’s insult in my ear.
If you’re making so much damn money, why did you reverse the charges on the call???