Ennui

I read a poem on one of the sites I haunt searching for ideas. The poem was a self appraisal, though as ever with poets there is no way to figure what self is being appraised. Poets don characters as easily as actors and novelists and short story writers do. I said to myself,
"I can write this one."

So I did. There is humor here if you sit in the poet's seat instead of trying to glean some truth of poor Christopher.

Poor Christopher. He is aging and his friends are dying off and he is stuck in a basement and even the dog mostly ignores him. Poor man, he thinks he's a poet and all he writes is this drivel. Oh my, he thinks he knows God but God laughs and skips along unknowable as ever.

Holy Christ, all his life a quest and him failing as is obvious. Just look where he is at present. It really is obvious. His chief claim, an unbroken string of daily nose picking. Batting 1.000 there. See what I mean? This is absurd. Also it is not true. Well, mainly it is not true. The dog does like me and would not ignore me if we were alone together. It's complicated.

What is true. I do know how to write the poem. I know I am not the only one.

Ennui

Losing interest.
That's what you tell me is wrong.
I feel it leak out.
It's just like trying
to hold mud with my claw hands
and watching the streaks
of it drizzle down
across my squandered knee joints,
then further down me
as if I'm not there.

So I guess you are again
right as fine silver
rain misting downward
in a light spring breeze early
of a promising
day.

If only I
could feel like a man might feel
instead of a log.

‎November ‎8, ‎2014 10:45 AM

I feel better now.