the hall is before you again and the man
stumbling in his hurry to leave
and the wild voice is saying Wait, come back
you watch stupidly as he takes the stairs
four at a time, silently hurtling down and away,
his head bowed, his mouth stretched shut
like a drum. you panic and begin screaming lies
downwind to him -- how you never loved him,
how much you loved him. you see him cross
the road, moving steadily, his legs
working like scissors, now. in desperation
you race to the roof of the building. you begin
a long, garish striptease, throwing your clothes
as far as your can. you start to gyrate, thinking
he'll feel left out, or disgusted. as a last
resort, you walk to the edge and swear you'll jump.
a crowd gathers halfheartedly, you look out
and see his figure, very small, way
on the horizon. you send up flares, you do
a little jig on the ledge. you hope
the press will send a man out.
suzanne finnamore
8 comments:
chilling and lovely and cold and tragic and perfect.
the story of my twenties.
do you suppose that's why they call them "The Roaring Twenties?"
honestly, i don't see what is "mediocre" about your poetry. this one is gut-wrenching and thrilling. i feel like the man the press sent out.
YOU ARE THE MAN THE PRESS SENT OUT. ha!
this is the closest i get to a self analysis. i read this poem years later and i think, Oh. so that's my schtick. poems are much more revealing that books. I aim to be putting this whole poem into the past in terms of any actual behavior. my dad left when i was 7 and it just blew a rod under my hood. it takes so long to sort it all out, but i am. you are my witnesses.
ha, the roaring twenties.
what about the thirties? fascinating, i'm the one leaving doing double time down the steps not looking back, blocking out the sirens calling me to crash myself on the rocks again. never again.
yet again, great perspective. (don't mind me as i blaze through your blog now gathering up all that you leave out for strays)
you're not strays, but the poems are
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