Tired Old Poet Blues Or: The End
I got these tired old poet blues
God, I've been knocking on doors
And ringing telephones
That noone wants to answer blues
I'm tired and I'm old
I look old and I feel old
But not in my heart
In my heart I'm a mooney-eyed
Young boy, a young poet
Walking down sunlit and moonlit gravelly, dusty country roads
And romping through country meadows full of wild strawberries that I would pluck
And eat, and then feel the delicious tingle in my mouth
Staring into, by turns, the sun and the moon
And going exquisitely blind and mad
Going to the lakes up north with my foster parents
And my brother( My poor younger brother who I didn't love enough
and let down so many times)
But hiring a rowboat and rowing out over the blue lake
With the hot, medicinal, yellow sun on my skin,
Under my skin, into my bloodstream
Filling my brain and my heart with its mystic heat-rays
Alone, always alone
Diving from the boat beneath the lake surface into the dark wetness
That is so much like the dark wetness of a nubile girl
That's something I know little of though (through actual experience)
The only girl I've had sex with in my tired old life so far
Was not nubile and she wasn't a girl
She was a woman in her 40's and I, I was 30 years old, and I haven't
had sex with anyone since; over 31 years ago as of now
These days, I don't stare at the moon except the lunatic full moon through my window
And I don't go wandering, getting up after midnight
And everyone's asleep and go walking down long, dark country roads
Over bridges and rivers, staring into the stars, the trees, the water,
and the inner workngs of my narcissstic soul -
I was narcissistic then
Looking, listening, hard for poetry
In the eternal rhythms of the universe and the human heart
When I was young, I was old and wise
Too wise to love or let myself get close to another human being
Though, I wanted that closeness so much
From the beautiful young girls I pined after at high school
In their strapless prom dresses
Proms that I didn't go to because I was a loner and an individualist, a poet
(I had my territory cut out for myself)
But - and the sweet, delicious young girls in their swimsuits up north at the lakes
That I would pine after and ache for But
Never speak to because I knew that's how you got hurt
(I thought of it as a weakness) needing the the love or the touch of another Human Being
I had felt that since 3 or four years old - even before
I lost my blood mother - she vanished when I was 6 years old
And noone, not even one of her sisters who hired private detectives
has ever been able to find her
Since then I've been looking, in vain, for someone to replace her love
Anyway, shortly before I turned 18, I started smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol
BeauseI wanted to escape reality, I still do, I can only take so much reality at a time
And anyway why does reality have to be something that's unpleasant, or ugly, or violent or
painful or gross or crude
Why can't reality be Beautiful and Pleasurable and Loving, Classy and Happy
It is - that is reality, too, but whenever someone talks about being realistic,
they usually mean the former - the ugly the painful - not the latter, the Beautiful - the pleasurable
Anyway, a few days shy of 18,
I ran away from my violent home
[My foster father(God love him, though) was unpredictably violent toward me and my brother]
I went from the frying pan into the fire
I went to Detroit, Michigan, left my suitcase with all my belongings, including all the poetry
I had written up to that time, in a room at the YMCA - except for an electric razor
that my foster mother had given me for Christmas
I was walking the streets,trying to find a place to hock it, the razor
When 2 cops pulled up in their car, put me in it
And took me to jail for some unknown, unknowable reason
They finger printed me, took my picture - I was 3 days shy of 18
I spent my 18th birthday in jail
They let me go then; gave me back the $10. I had with me but not my electric shaver
I got back to the Y and discovered my suitcase with all my poetry - missing - gone
I didn't write again for 4 years
I was too busy trying to survive, anyway
I hitchhiked back to the Muncie, Indiana area that I came from to the town of Redkey
And got a job working in the local tomato canning factory there
And on that trip, that hitchhike back
I felt (I don't remember it as well, now) But it was either the burdens of the entire universe
or the burden of all the loneliness of the entire universe, on my shoulders
It wasn't a vague, undefinable feeling
The way I felt it, it was palpable, real - and soo lonely, ever so lonely
I haven't felt that lonely since, and believe me, I have felt terrible loneliness -
and still do - in my life,
The lonely, isolated, depressed, haven't a friend in the world -
nobody care if I live or die blues
But anyway, before I tell the story of my life:
I started out saying that
I got the tired old Poet blues
The been knocking on doors
And ringing telephones
That noone wants to answer, blues
Well, as foolish as I am,
I have referred to myself before as being
Lost, Lustful, Foolish and Bewildered
And I really am, Bewildered, have been forever even
When I was young and thought I was so smart
(You always think you're smart when you're young)
Well, this started out being a cynical or pessimistic poem
But -- I really, still believe
That before it's too late
Someone's going to answer
The door or the telephone
And I'll be Loved
And I'll be able to Love Her in return
Wise or unwise, foolish or not
That's what most of my poetry and
Most of my life is about
Even when it seemed or seems the opposite
Love
I really believe:
Is the Greatest Power in the Universe
Love is God -- and you know what The Beatles say:
"In the End, the Love you take is equal to the Love you Make"
So:
Make a LOT of Love
The more you Make, the more you'll take
The End
Note: If you have read this far, God Bless you! This poem was written
A couple years ago. And I have read it 4 times at The Phoenix Coffee House.
And each time it has gone over well. I hope you like it!
Copyright Christopher Steele Brower
I got these tired old poet blues
God, I've been knocking on doors
And ringing telephones
That noone wants to answer blues
I'm tired and I'm old
I look old and I feel old
But not in my heart
In my heart I'm a mooney-eyed
Young boy, a young poet
Walking down sunlit and moonlit gravelly, dusty country roads
And romping through country meadows full of wild strawberries that I would pluck
And eat, and then feel the delicious tingle in my mouth
Staring into, by turns, the sun and the moon
And going exquisitely blind and mad
Going to the lakes up north with my foster parents
And my brother( My poor younger brother who I didn't love enough
and let down so many times)
But hiring a rowboat and rowing out over the blue lake
With the hot, medicinal, yellow sun on my skin,
Under my skin, into my bloodstream
Filling my brain and my heart with its mystic heat-rays
Alone, always alone
Diving from the boat beneath the lake surface into the dark wetness
That is so much like the dark wetness of a nubile girl
That's something I know little of though (through actual experience)
The only girl I've had sex with in my tired old life so far
Was not nubile and she wasn't a girl
She was a woman in her 40's and I, I was 30 years old, and I haven't
had sex with anyone since; over 31 years ago as of now
These days, I don't stare at the moon except the lunatic full moon through my window
And I don't go wandering, getting up after midnight
And everyone's asleep and go walking down long, dark country roads
Over bridges and rivers, staring into the stars, the trees, the water,
and the inner workngs of my narcissstic soul -
I was narcissistic then
Looking, listening, hard for poetry
In the eternal rhythms of the universe and the human heart
When I was young, I was old and wise
Too wise to love or let myself get close to another human being
Though, I wanted that closeness so much
From the beautiful young girls I pined after at high school
In their strapless prom dresses
Proms that I didn't go to because I was a loner and an individualist, a poet
(I had my territory cut out for myself)
But - and the sweet, delicious young girls in their swimsuits up north at the lakes
That I would pine after and ache for But
Never speak to because I knew that's how you got hurt
(I thought of it as a weakness) needing the the love or the touch of another Human Being
I had felt that since 3 or four years old - even before
I lost my blood mother - she vanished when I was 6 years old
And noone, not even one of her sisters who hired private detectives
has ever been able to find her
Since then I've been looking, in vain, for someone to replace her love
Anyway, shortly before I turned 18, I started smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol
BeauseI wanted to escape reality, I still do, I can only take so much reality at a time
And anyway why does reality have to be something that's unpleasant, or ugly, or violent or
painful or gross or crude
Why can't reality be Beautiful and Pleasurable and Loving, Classy and Happy
It is - that is reality, too, but whenever someone talks about being realistic,
they usually mean the former - the ugly the painful - not the latter, the Beautiful - the pleasurable
Anyway, a few days shy of 18,
I ran away from my violent home
[My foster father(God love him, though) was unpredictably violent toward me and my brother]
I went from the frying pan into the fire
I went to Detroit, Michigan, left my suitcase with all my belongings, including all the poetry
I had written up to that time, in a room at the YMCA - except for an electric razor
that my foster mother had given me for Christmas
I was walking the streets,trying to find a place to hock it, the razor
When 2 cops pulled up in their car, put me in it
And took me to jail for some unknown, unknowable reason
They finger printed me, took my picture - I was 3 days shy of 18
I spent my 18th birthday in jail
They let me go then; gave me back the $10. I had with me but not my electric shaver
I got back to the Y and discovered my suitcase with all my poetry - missing - gone
I didn't write again for 4 years
I was too busy trying to survive, anyway
I hitchhiked back to the Muncie, Indiana area that I came from to the town of Redkey
And got a job working in the local tomato canning factory there
And on that trip, that hitchhike back
I felt (I don't remember it as well, now) But it was either the burdens of the entire universe
or the burden of all the loneliness of the entire universe, on my shoulders
It wasn't a vague, undefinable feeling
The way I felt it, it was palpable, real - and soo lonely, ever so lonely
I haven't felt that lonely since, and believe me, I have felt terrible loneliness -
and still do - in my life,
The lonely, isolated, depressed, haven't a friend in the world -
nobody care if I live or die blues
But anyway, before I tell the story of my life:
I started out saying that
I got the tired old Poet blues
The been knocking on doors
And ringing telephones
That noone wants to answer, blues
Well, as foolish as I am,
I have referred to myself before as being
Lost, Lustful, Foolish and Bewildered
And I really am, Bewildered, have been forever even
When I was young and thought I was so smart
(You always think you're smart when you're young)
Well, this started out being a cynical or pessimistic poem
But -- I really, still believe
That before it's too late
Someone's going to answer
The door or the telephone
And I'll be Loved
And I'll be able to Love Her in return
Wise or unwise, foolish or not
That's what most of my poetry and
Most of my life is about
Even when it seemed or seems the opposite
Love
I really believe:
Is the Greatest Power in the Universe
Love is God -- and you know what The Beatles say:
"In the End, the Love you take is equal to the Love you Make"
So:
Make a LOT of Love
The more you Make, the more you'll take
The End
Note: If you have read this far, God Bless you! This poem was written
A couple years ago. And I have read it 4 times at The Phoenix Coffee House.
And each time it has gone over well. I hope you like it!
Copyright Christopher Steele Brower
VIEW 26 of 26 COMMENTS
chrissteele:
I have to say this: This does not need to be a short story! It is already a poem! If you don't know the difference, I can't tell you. Even poets disagree as to what is a poem and what is not. Poetry is the ultimate, in whatever someone does. A skyscraper or a pair of shoes or a dance or lyrics to a song can be poetry. There's only one person I know- a super crazy guy, even crazier than me -who had and gave me a definition of poetry - over the phone - oh, he's a poet too. But even by his definition, which I unfortunately don't remember, poetry is a subjective thing. Poetry reaches down and grabs the soul and lifts it up! A locally famous poet once called my poetry dirty and said it wasn't really poetry! Often, when someone feels threatened by someone else's poetry - because it is successful or whatever reason, they claim it isn't poetry. So many people claim they don't like poetry. But when something reaches and touches them deeply and viscerally enough, they respond to it as though it were poetry.
feerlessfreddy:
i enjoy reading about peoples lives. where do you write. do you go to a unique place outdoors or stay inside?