Poetry from my college days
Years ago, I got something in the mail about submitting a poem for publication, and so I did, in some sort of vanity press, where the real point was to have the people who submitted the poems and got it "published" then buy the book. I did submit a poem, but I didn't buy the book, and I doubt it is catalogued anywhere.
The poem I submitted was an old poem I had written while I was a freshman in college, 19 years old I guess. I was into creative writing back then, I had a comedic piece published in the school paper at UC Irvine, and I used to spend my time between classes writing in a journal. I was trying to develop my own sort of poetry, I guess you could say. Or well at least that is what I thought, an experiment at setting the mood more than trying to say anything in particular. The mood was always lonely, always about loneliness, I don't really know why.
Anyhow, here's a sample:
As I stood there, looking out the sliding glass door, the memories came flooding back to me. Even now, two days later, I cannot push them away, and I watch myself crying in the mirror. It was, I think, the glass that did it, and your questions, still ringing in my ear. Why do you want to make me cry, can't we just let the past be the past? There were so many nights, so many times, all alone, I don't remember them all anymore, I don't want to remember them. The size of the sliding glass door, that was the size of the windows, the windows from the second story cafe, where I sat for hours, waiting for him. Trying not to let everyone notice, as the tears fell into my cup, onto my food. And then I would wander the streets, not knowing which way to turn, lost and cold in the dark, telling no one. For there was no one there to tell.
The poem I submitted was an old poem I had written while I was a freshman in college, 19 years old I guess. I was into creative writing back then, I had a comedic piece published in the school paper at UC Irvine, and I used to spend my time between classes writing in a journal. I was trying to develop my own sort of poetry, I guess you could say. Or well at least that is what I thought, an experiment at setting the mood more than trying to say anything in particular. The mood was always lonely, always about loneliness, I don't really know why.
Anyhow, here's a sample:
As I stood there, looking out the sliding glass door, the memories came flooding back to me. Even now, two days later, I cannot push them away, and I watch myself crying in the mirror. It was, I think, the glass that did it, and your questions, still ringing in my ear. Why do you want to make me cry, can't we just let the past be the past? There were so many nights, so many times, all alone, I don't remember them all anymore, I don't want to remember them. The size of the sliding glass door, that was the size of the windows, the windows from the second story cafe, where I sat for hours, waiting for him. Trying not to let everyone notice, as the tears fell into my cup, onto my food. And then I would wander the streets, not knowing which way to turn, lost and cold in the dark, telling no one. For there was no one there to tell.
Comments
Last night, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him sitting there in the art gallery, and I was so glad. And then I turned to look, and of couse it was not him, he is a half a world away. Strange how much your heart can miss someone you've only spoken to a few times in your life.