The Poet
THE POET
He sat with arms stretched out, seeming through minds of their own to be reaching, grabbing for another plain of existence. The desk, four legs and various drawers was made from finely fashioned oak, the slight red hue casting eerie shadows on the wood itself. The desk appeared to be a part of him, so much so that if he were to stand up I would not believe in the existence of his legs. An outlet of himself, if you will, grown into his very existence by years and desolate boxes of jelly donuts, only shards remaining from past days, and empty cups of coffee allowing him to remain seated day in and day out. He had grown old on Chinese food and pizza, his soft gray hair poured around his head, back and arms like tears from heaven.
Just sitting there head bent looking for something lost in a drawer, searching methodically, I thought, through papers, pencils, files, rubber bands, and paper clips. Atop all this was a hat he seemed not able to wear, which appeared to be the object of his ferocious shuffling, were it not for the fact that it lay thus I would be totally convinced. The hat, soiled and worn by reminiscent handling, was some fossil from the past that kept pushing its way to the future. Facing up it seemed to be looking, rather waiting for heaven. It lay quiet despite the sights and sounds of a thousand years, being born over and over again through natural reincarnation. Throughout, blue within, blue without, and the name of a lover lay upon a parcel of paper above “to my most precious love” it pronounced “Lenore” and an uninterpritable babble beneath. (Surmised I this was his signature.)
It was obvious of the intent but the reasons for its location puzzled me, not wanting to dwell that long on fate, my intent changed to circumstance.
He did not move, wanting only to look at those letters, to look upon that name for love so deep, a name of love pure not to be held or contaminated by any force on earth nor heaven above.
On a shelf of equally beautiful pine lay the collected works of Shakespeare, Poe, Dickinson, Tennyson, all the famous poets he had learned through years of isolation to love. Inside I was sure were thorough analysis and marked passages worn and underlined by a desire burned in the darkness of
listless existences. My curiosity almost got the best of me to read those thoughts collected over such a bleak career of the renowned poet.
The walls were a dull gray color though they seemed to lighten up the room. There was nothing hung on the wall, but there need not be for he was a man of vast imagination, a poet who saw much in the gray of everyday nonchalant existences. The room had a mysterious aura of sunshine and fields of grass in which children play, I do not know why this thought came to mind and had no reason to dwell on it yet I did for some time, until so plagued I sank into the only chair in the room not fully occupied.
Slowly recuperating from the cloudy daze that covered them my mind would not let me focus on the table in front of me, it too seemed caught in a vision. When my vision finally returned through no slight amount of concentration I saw a table on which lay a letter surrounded by the necessities of life long lived behind the closed doors bared though only in the mind. There were the pencils and sharpener, many stacks of paper, and chicken scratchings on various odds and ends that seemed to be used to construct his thesis on the theory of life addressed to Lenore (never to be read), it began:
‘Dearest love Lenore. I have felt the pressure of the days without you and I feel as one who shot his horse to feed the hunger of famine in his mind and soul while leaving no possible avenues for escape from the bleak black desert. I deeply regret the pain you have had away from me these years yet I had not the courage then. On that day in the field where we played and loved and grew, on that day with a thousand stars in the sky, on that day when we were locked in a love embrace and all you could talk about was heaven, on that day when we ran through the grass and were simultaneously transformed into vicious beasts, on that day when you took me to the tree of burden with a rope for a swing and love we set out to live apart from no more, on the day you turned so cold to touch. Forgive me my love I have not the courage.’
I should have visualized his hesitation instead I could almost see the scream of frustration but why envy? Perhaps love creates a fool...
...he must have before the bullet reeked havoc with his brain. Putting my finger in the hole it had left behind I felt if I strained long and hard enough I could bend and warp the very basis on which time was founded to hear that soliloquy and see a field with one not so barren tree, just as he must have. I looked to the ground then shameful for violating the dead and taking queer fancy from their thoughts I noticed a revolver laying on the ground the origin of the rocket that carries to a higher plain where it explodes. Picking up the Smith & Wesson Navy I held it firmly to my head, the heat was gone from the pearl handle yet it would return and with proper care this too would be taught to love. Bringing it down I placed it in my pocket, another relic of forgotten wars for preeminent love.
Turned I to leave and through the corner of my eye caught a glimpse of a single motion necessary to bring the sacred relic to heaven. I knew with that sense that you get from working forty years in the same occupation, call it what you will but I knew that hat was gone. Perhaps it was something inside me which held me back from assuring my premonitions, for those who sleep soundly with private philosophy rarely wish the nightmare of possibility.
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