From childhood’s hour I have not been
As other were- I have not seen
As other saw- I could not bring
My passions from a common spring-
Edgar Allan Poe, ‘Alone’
I revisit this poem often. And as many before have claimed, poetry changes. The same lines which once meant one thing, now mean another. Life experience. Happiness. Depression. A solid hangover. Sobriety. Solidarity. The Hand of God.
I don’t much care for the thought of being benchmarked. In HS I refused to take the Grand Ole Test at the end of Senior Year to determine my future. ‘Ah! You belong at Harvard! But you! You belong in the streets sweeping Harvard!” Nah, those benchmarks were made by brains that don’t fit my non-squared process of being. So, I did my own thing. And things have turned out rather well.
One of the reasons I read Poe’s poem ‘Alone’ so often is that it reminds me, very clearly, how different Poe felt from his peers. I think many of us feel this way at times, and it’s OK.
Oh! I hit the weights for the first time since my injury. I kept it light and all is good! The scar is on the inside of my elbow bend. An odd place because of all of the movement needed to utilize an arm. I’ve held off on uploading a photo…I don’t know how many of my friends on here actually want to see that lol.
And ps, I’ve been that guy sweeping the street. There’s a reason I had a smile on my face.
I have a wall watching me.
watches all the time.
Nothing to say.
I open a beer,
and listen to silence.
Looking at the wall.
Sometimes I don’t want to write
and I do anyway
The voices are different
The walls are the same
and not, too
Doesn’t much matter
I’ll always write
and the walls
will always be there
We’ll go here now. It’ll not matter because the filled glass will be put away. It’s not for them to do this. When they do we leave. It’s not truth and we know this. Because we know we cannot care about them or how they came to think. Their decision is their own and then there’s more. There’s always more it’s odd that we continue to care. A cob fell from the stock. A boy picked it from the mud and wondered where it came from. He turned and faced the morning sun. He wanted to ask.
Nothing’s good enough. So, I write nothing. I write about a grandmother sitting alone on a boulder sipping air while watching you. You don’t care much about this, but you still think of her. As a girl she wore sun dresses which you admired. Kicking dirt, ignoring her. In your room you had thoughts that blanketed freedom.
A face, like a barn door,
asked me to be like a nothing.
I was. Much like the old woman
shaking, and alone, just outside
the frosted window.
Some girls have never been given a flower
this hurts me to think about
but I know in my heart,
that’s just how it is
A shadow walks along best when alone.
A young boy sat on a stump. He closed his eyes counting numbers. Having found seven of them he opened his eyes and was home. His mother was crying. His father was not. He closed his eyes again and found a stone to skip. “Can I have the stone again?” The stone was taken by the water.
Some nights are different
Some care less about you