by Earl J. Wilcox
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| From the current issue of The New Yorker. |
Once, they were not just cutting edge,
They were the edge. Timely, clever,
Witty, observant of contemporary politics,
Our mores (for better or worse)—
Fresh, unique, without peers in other
Mags. (I could go on listing adjectives
Suggesting their demise, but you get the point.)
Was it the pandemic? A change in editors at
The storied mag? Perhaps all the good cartoonists
Died or became so out of touch or old or both
They no longer know what’s funny and what’s
Just a quaint take on our times. I long for a return
To those good old days when The New Yorker
Made me smile out loud at least three times
Each week. Or is it just me?
When did I stop seeing humor in politics and people,
In our pain and our poignant moments, our sass,
In all that’s worth seeing in human nature, even
Occasionally cruel jesting at our sores and warts,
our meanness. So many sexy innuendoes in those
Cartoons one could publish a book (as the mag’s
Editors have done several times over!) Such
Terrific and precious or precocious punch lines.
Is such pleasure taken from us forever?
Is this the way the world may end, not
With a SHAZAM but a New Yorker
Cartoon blaaah?
Earl Wilcox discovered The New Yorker cartoons about seven decades ago.
