"Finalizing the Deal, I Believe You Call It"

Many years ago, I learned of a poem that the late, great Leonard Bernstein wrote shortly before his death. I recently rediscovered this poem when unpacking the dozens of boxes that moved with me to my new house in May. Since it's not readily available, I thought I'd share it with you all here. No copyright infringement intended, just another homage to one of the greatest artists, thinkers, teachers, and people the world has ever known.

-----------

FINALIZING THE DEAL, I BELIEVE YOU CALL IT

1. Trimeters

I made a deal with God.
God, she was tough to deal with.
Dealt me a tempting clause—
Then a sharp zap to the kidney.

It wasn’t a real deal,
Really, just a sort of
Gentlepersons’ Agreement.
We almost shook on it;
The snag was Time, time
Not just to live it out
To the maximum, only to write
That one Important Piece.

“How do you know it will be
That important?” she asked.
“I’ll know, all right, but there’ll be
No way to prove it. Not in a court
Of law, especially our kind
Of court. No witnesses.”
“Bullshit,” she murmured. “It’s the same
Old Thing again: Afraid
To Die, afraid to try
The consequences of Not-To-Be.”
“Wrong,” I said. “Afraid
Died in my vocabulary
Long ago—except of hurting
Someone I love, and then
Of not writing my Piece
Before my Not-To-Be.”
Long discussion; not to bore you
With it: We swapped equations,
We weighed the torts and liens.

2. Tetrameters

Then she became suddenly tender,
At the same time changing gender.
“I offer the Answer to the Unanswered Question
In trade for cancer, or lethal indigestion.”

I thought to myself: unfair bargaining.

Much more painful to know the Answer
Than any form of mortal cancer.

3. Mixed Doubles

“But the Cosmos,” he wheedled,
“The ultimate macro-atom.”

“No deal, thank you, madam.”
Changing gender, she played her ace
In the hole. The biggest. “Beginninglessness.”
That did it. I signed on.
We shook on it.
I’m still shaking.

-----------

For HK. Revised and given to him in Prague, June 3, 1990

-----------

(This poem was written by Leonard Bernstein in Prague late May 1990, after he had learned that a malignant tumor had appeared on the pleural lining of his left lung. The poem is addressed to Harry Kraut, LB’s manager and friend.)