Favorite Poets, Favorite Poems: Jeff Weddle

The Web
Trying Not Trying
Thank You
Sabres, Gentlemen! Sabres!
You'll Think

Jeff Weddle



The Web

What if Charles Bukowski 
had never lived 
or beautiful Paula Hinchman? 

What if I had never known 
my childhood friends 
like Randy Burruss 
or Marty Osborne or Doonie Ward? 

What if I had not drunk vodka 
with Mike Fitzpatrick 
or started on beer 
with John Spears?

Or what about beautiful Vicky Hill 
and David Banner and Tom Blackburn 
and Philip Bishop?

What if I hadn’t gotten into karate 
when I was fourteen?

What if beautiful Margaret
had not been at that high school reunion?
 
Or what if I never read Brautigan 
and really what if Bukowski 
had never been born? 

What if I had never found my Jill
through all of it? 

That’s the terrifying question. 

What if I had not found her?

What then would have become 
of me?

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Trying Not Trying

I could do nothing if I tried. 
I’m certain of it. 

Nothing at all. 

I can already sit and stare. 
That’s almost doing nothing.
 
I’m sure, if I put my mind to it, 
I could do much less. 

Less than you, anyway. 

I mean, for God’s sake, 
you’re reading this. 

What are you, 
a hive of ambition? 

I can do nothing at all, 
believe me. 

Nada. 

I can do it for hours 
just as a warm up 
to something even less. 

Watch me. 

Or don’t. 

Here goes....




Thank You

This is for 
my first love 
and my last 
and all those 
in between 

for the ones 
who loved me back
and those who never did 

for those who wronged me 
and the ones 
I casually hurt. 

This is for long 
October walks 
and movies shared 
in darkness

hot tender nights
and screams 

tears and laughter
the long silence
and the hard leaving.

This is for years 
spent too fast 
and especially 
for times 
of grace.

This is for each one on the wind
the music we shared 
or could have.

This is for love 
for you
and nothing ever lost 
or forgotten.




Sabers, Gentlemen! Sabers!

Barry Hannah went mad in Tuscaloosa 
and wrote immortal books 
drunk as hell and dying of love. 

Somewhere there’s a little green house 
where he wrote Ray 
and every once in a while stepped into the yard 
hoping his ex-wife might drive by so he could wave. 

Tuscaloosa is where he shot holes 
in the floorboard of his convertible 
to let the rain out 
because who has time 
to put up the top in bad weather 
when the words and the booze 
won’t let you be?

Barry Hannah went mad in Tuscaloosa, 
where he lived in a mansion 
before his wife wised up and kicked him out.

He went mad in Tuscaloosa 
and didn’t pay his taxes 
and went to jail 
and to the lunatic asylum. 

Barry Hannah went mad in Tuscaloosa 
and he is even dead 
and I can still hear his footsteps.

Tuscaloosa didn’t deserve him 
and I never hear a soul mention his name. 

Now he’s flying high 
the battles fought to a bloody nub 
and them Yankees running 
like Robert E. Lee is nibbling on their belly. 

He was my kind and I have followed
thinking of Barry Hannah
and going mad in Tuscaloosa.



You’ll Think

You’ll think about it later 
maybe even years from now. 

You’ll think about 
the angle of light 
in that room
on that particular day 

about her sitting 
on that green couch
her legs crossed in denim

the weight of the air 
the beguiling fragrance 
the stolen glances.

You’ll think about her hair 
falling across her shoulders
and how she laughed
at something you didn’t say.

You’ll think about 
the one you never spoke to
the thing you never said.

Read More of Jeff's poems here.  
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​Bio:
Jeff Weddle is a poet and writer living in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He won the Eudora Welty Prize for Bohemian New Orleans: The Story of the Outsider and Loujon Press, and has also received honors for his fiction and poetry. Jeff teaches in the School of Library and Information Studies at the University of Alabama. 

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