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July 28, 2004

romance

I do not write for you, my friend,
Not anymore.

Used to send one poem off chasing another
Every other week.
Like paper boats they floated,
My words crowding their decks, bravely waving
To devoted wishers-well.

Wrote good thoughts, too.
I cached those away like stamps or butterflies
Or quaint pewter buttons from Colonial times.

Then we used to chat
Of simple happiness,
Or lofty sadness.
Your answers came so quickly then:
For duty, perseverance.
For vision, striving.
For pain, comfort.
For pain again, yet more comfort.
Thrice pained, you faltered.
Four times, and you fled.

Pain blew mildew on my stamps,
And ugly rotten holes in my faded dusty flies,
And dashed my pewter button box to the floor.

At first I smiled as best I could.
I shrugged a bit and sighed,
"Oh, well. I'll get some more one day, I'm sure."
I've lost count of days since then.

And my boats, oh, my boats.
Let me tell about those.
Many sank, and the desperate mobs of ink
Were lifted on the tide still clinging to their dry fellows
Until the waters bore them away to ambiguous drowning.
Worse, some boats still sail in eddying circles.
Their wordy crews plunge bravely round
Through seas charted many times before,
And sing their chanties,
A broken record of my voice.
A very few boats are just gone.
I don't know where.

And there
You sit and fidget in my stare.
Come back, have you, to drive me mad?
I've nothing left for you to do.
Still, I suppose that I must keep you around
And stay attuned to every sound you make,
But just so you know,
I do not write for you, my friend,
Not anymore.

© 1991, All rights reserved.

I wrote this poem in 1991, back when I knew something about the jaded disappointment that romance often brings. Since then, I fell in love a few times, married once, was divorced, and lived alone since. Somehow romance doesn't disturb me as much now as it did back then. I actually feel less jaded, and less worldly-wise.

When I recently came across this poem in my archives again, I was first excited at having found it again. Then I read it through once, and my enthusiasm cooled. Then I went ahead and transcribed it to my webpage, and as I typed, I fell in love with it again. Not the same love I used to have for it, mind. I am not so impressed with it's verbal punch as I probably used to be. What strikes me now is the subtlety and restraint in word choices. And that takes me back to my state of mind when I wrote it; it wasn't hurried, flustered or mad. It was quiet, slow and sad.

Another compelling thing about this poem is that it directly mocks itself: "Worse, some boats still sail in eddying circles...and sing their chanties, a broken record of my voice." I cannot think of a better way to describe this poem. It is like the flawed man who redeems himself with accurate self deprication. It doesn't make this a better poem, but it does make me like it a little more.

Posted by joel at July 28, 2004 03:51 AM

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Posted by: jon hunt at April 4, 2005 01:35 PM

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