I stood near his simple grey stone marker

and wondered what attitude I should adopt.

He was after all a famous and loved poet.

Should reverence or admiration rule here?

The rude gravestone is modest and marked

only by his name, dates of entrance and exit

and the words 'Cast a cold eye on life, on

death, horseman, pass by...' ellipsis inferred.

Many famous versifiers, practitioners of the

the word, men of stature and self-importance,

have written poems about him, his greatness,

and to mourn his hugely sad loss to the world.

Not so famous visitors to this resting place,

motorcoach carried and video camera laden,

spoke in hushed tones of his undying genius.

At least, most did but one, raucously, did not.

His nasal, 'Ugly-American' voice destroyed the

mood of the moment. “Hell Mabel,” he grated,

“the guy was a faggot and a lush. Did you really

drag me out of the damned coach for this crap.”

She bristled, shook her immensity and thundered

through a substantial cloud of duty free perfume.

“He was a celebrated poet, you butt-ugly ass-hole,

take the shot, get me with the grave in background.”

I couldn't hide my contempt, couldn't look away,

eyes met, flashed, locked and possibly smouldered.

“A faggot and a lush you reckon?” I shook my head,

asked, “how do feel about the great Walt Whitman?”

They turned, walked slowly away, I heard him say,

to morose Mabel, “who the hell is this Whitman guy?”

“He was a great poet, honey.” “Not another Irish fairy?”

“No honey, American.” “Was he…?” “I guess so…”

The tourists reclaimed their seats, the coach moved

on and  the Langley couple slipped into dreamland.

The ‘Ugly American’ became the ‘Quiet American’,

possibly, the most dangerous creature on God’s earth.

End Note:   For ugly Americans everywhere: I visited the last resting place of W B Yeats in Drumcliff Churchyard, County Sligo, Ireland. Even there the heavy foot, the big mouth and the arrogance of the archetypal conqueror of the known universe disturbed the agrarian quiet. Clearly, the focus of my irritation had not read the Eugene Burdick [1918-1965] and William Lederer [1912-2009] riveting book ‘The Ugly American’, set in an easily recognizable Asian country and based on a character drawn from the personal attributes and attitudes of Otto Hunerwadel, an ICA technician serving in Burma towards the end of World War Two.

I am also prepared to bet that he had not read the Graham Greene [1904-1991] book ‘The Quiet American’ either. He probably missed the Marlon Brando [1924-2004] and the Audie Murphy [1924-1971] movies too. However, both are now available on DVD so, wherever he is, he could easily do so. Chance is a fine thing. A chance scanning of a photograph album and the rediscovery of one of my photographs of Drumcliff Churchyard taken on my visit to the poet’s simple graveside brought back the moment.