The poet Joe Green, from Minneapolis, claims on his Facebook page that his father knew Bob Mitchum. After his father died, and Joe went through his papers, he came across some poems that Bob had given his father.
They certainly seem authentic - but can anyone verify the claim?
The first poem is said to have been written by Bob when filming in Mexico with Bogie - they used to go on fishing trips together:
Cabo San Lucas
Rising early to beat the heat
a little dry from last nights booze.
We're soon out miles from land where
the big fish roam under the sun
and stars, undisturbed by time's
Slicing bonito for bait, the blood is
red against all the blue. Blue above
and below. The hook, hungering for
meat, shines blue in my hand as
I drop its feathered plume into the wake.
We drink beer and wait for the line to sing,
rattling off the reel like a runaway train,
tightening under the drag, burning the leather stop.
The marlin leaps, its bill skewering the sky,
carves and dances in the blue, then twists and dives.
The rod quivers in the belt. Leather biting my back
I reel and pull, the marlin leaps again,
I heave forward and rare back as fire
sweat and salt gather on my skin
A moment's slack, a shake, the fish is free.
Why aren't all losses as lovely as this?
The next is a perceptive look at Ronald Reagan:
He'll go far, of that I'm sure
since grease and a smile
will get you a mile in this town.
People love him, but what do
they know? He's just another
B-grade star with an A-grade grin
and a glad-hand ready for
any and all.
Fuck them all, I say. Only a few
here are worth their salaries
and the rest are mannequins
dressed for the window show.
Jesus, maybe New York was the
place, but I'd miss the beach and
the sunsets here. I'm damn lucky
even if I can't have it all.
Out of the Past
These hills, that ocean out there, the sun
heating these roadstered streets at
noon where the young and the beautiful
pass me with their eyes empty of light
but filled with the darkness of longing.
Too often I've lost myself in them,
swallowed the dark draught and followed
them west, under the setting moon
to the edge of the world and oblivion
until the sun again ripples the air
above these roadstered streets
and dressed in someone elses clothes
I rise to become whoever I may be today.
I hate the rain here. On location we're
knee deep in fake blood and mud
and the asshole director with no soul
calls for us to make another take.
I'm going leave this all soon,
all the celebrity with its paper-moon
love and bulb popping phoniness.
There's no space for anything but loneliness.
I took the A-train uptown to hear her sing,
she said I'd be safe going in with her
but man, the looks I got. And all around
everyone looking so fine and cool
and eyes flashing out of those dark
spaces, filled with things I'll never know.
And when she sang, it was like the moon
melting down, white pearls and black satin
and a sudden silence that only she could bring.
and Thunder Road....
Jimmy was slim.
I had a belly.
Lana Turner is dead.
And so's Grace Kelly.
What does it matter
Fast or slow