I Will Become a Different Sort of Man
grooveamatic
Posts: 1,374
And I do not care if
some forever from now
I should see you
(hair pulled back)
in a grocery store line,
oranges and butter and cheese
curls
all happy and grown up.
I simply do not care.
I care much more about myself
from this point forward
(for all practical purposes,
now is my midpoint)
and I have begun to wonder
if I could become a different sort of man.
I don’t mean some obscure reference
to my moral fiber,
my honesty or my respect for my elders;
no, I wonder if I could become
a different sort of man
at this stage of the game,
a man who rides a motorcycle
or juggles flaming things
or works in a glassy office building,
that sort of different.
I suppose wondering such a thing
must imply an inherent unhappiness
with the sort of man I currently am,
but perhaps it is just wishing for a swoosh
at the halftime buzzer.
We used to walk along the beach
early in the mornings while on vacation;
the purpose was many-fold,
and included finding seashells,
enjoying the subdued early coastal light
and hearing the sounds of the gulls
unfettered by screaming children,
honking buses,
or grunted games of volleyball.
I can still exist there,
in that little boy’s senses
on that beach,
and become aware again of what
he was aware of then:
infinite possibility is terrifying,
and there is not a more true fact in the universe
than infinite possibility.
But still, I don’t tell you anything
you don’t already know.
Just take a look at your shoes.
And where one branch divides
and another forks off
and another becomes a dwindling dawdling
dried-up tributary is where
my most precious soul sings;
as possibilities are eliminated
my own uniqueness grows,
while at the same time my chances
of becoming a Balloonist
are all but squashed.
The triteness of this idea
almost makes me sick,
but yet neither can it’s truth be denied.
It is still possible for me to become a Balloonist,
but the reality of who I’ve become makes it impossible.
I simply will never do it.
I had a vision,
a day or two ago,
of what life here in my solitary apartment
could be like,
if I so chose.
I saw myself
in my bathtub at midday
splashing around with a rubber duck
I had bought on a whim,
and plastic boats
and expensive masculine bubble bath,
the noon heat forcing my bathroom
window open,
I would splash in silence,
in childlike reverence of living out
a boy’s fantasy:
a bath any way I like it.
But I will not do this,
not ever,
even though nothing at all is stopping me.
I have the time,
I have the money,
I have my own bathtub
and the lack of anyone else here
to stop me.
But I will not do this
because I am not that sort of man.
I am close to being that sort of man,
but not quite close enough.
I will continue to shower in the dark
while imagining fake interviews
with Larry King
(who is a big fan of my work)
unless there is a woman in the shower with me,
because I am the sort of man who showers with women
and imagines fake interviews
with Larry King.
I can vividly imagine a mountain’s peak
upon which I victoriously stand,
but in the viewfinder of your digital camera
you’ll never find me doing anything but driving
up mountains. By the easiest road.
Lately I have given much thought
to surprising everyone
and moving quite unexpectedly to Australia,
all by myself.
Why it is Australia, I don’t know,
but it seems like a lot of fun
and would be great to shock everyone with
and I’m sure the weather would greatly agree with me
and I have yet to sire any children to tie me to one place
or wed some poor sappy woman to hold me back
with her blowjobs and picture albums
(but she does look great in green)
so why not just pick up and go?
Ah. See, I actually am that sort of man,
who would do that sort of thing,
but there is now this other man inside me:
the one with a car payment,
credit card bills,
a 401k and offstreet parking
and just enough money for a plane ticket there.
I can’t leave part of me behind—
no more than a bird can leave it’s wings—
and so stay I must,
and swallow this unquenchable yearning,
this forlorn pit in the bottom of my stomach
(the soles of my feet)
that makes me want to run from this quiet life,
these phone calls and smoke-filled air,
these parking meters and ice cream cakes
to some other land where I can pretend
I’m as new as I seem to everyone else.
Tonight I will purchase from the Megastore
a camouflage baseball cap,
mid-quality hiking boots
and an insulated canteen
and tomorrow I will go to the mountains
by myself
and I won’t leave until I’ve done something
I would never do.
Who knows? Maybe start a fire with twigs,
or kill a bird with a stone,
or crest a peak somewhere using only my hands and feet.
I will become a different sort of man
if only to prove that life is not some senseless
falling-into of ways,
some boring rote self categorization
that benefits only topsoil and politicians.
I will touch your pregnant wife’s belly and I will whisper to it
of early mornings on beaches and lost loves in checkout lines.
some forever from now
I should see you
(hair pulled back)
in a grocery store line,
oranges and butter and cheese
curls
all happy and grown up.
I simply do not care.
I care much more about myself
from this point forward
(for all practical purposes,
now is my midpoint)
and I have begun to wonder
if I could become a different sort of man.
I don’t mean some obscure reference
to my moral fiber,
my honesty or my respect for my elders;
no, I wonder if I could become
a different sort of man
at this stage of the game,
a man who rides a motorcycle
or juggles flaming things
or works in a glassy office building,
that sort of different.
I suppose wondering such a thing
must imply an inherent unhappiness
with the sort of man I currently am,
but perhaps it is just wishing for a swoosh
at the halftime buzzer.
We used to walk along the beach
early in the mornings while on vacation;
the purpose was many-fold,
and included finding seashells,
enjoying the subdued early coastal light
and hearing the sounds of the gulls
unfettered by screaming children,
honking buses,
or grunted games of volleyball.
I can still exist there,
in that little boy’s senses
on that beach,
and become aware again of what
he was aware of then:
infinite possibility is terrifying,
and there is not a more true fact in the universe
than infinite possibility.
But still, I don’t tell you anything
you don’t already know.
Just take a look at your shoes.
And where one branch divides
and another forks off
and another becomes a dwindling dawdling
dried-up tributary is where
my most precious soul sings;
as possibilities are eliminated
my own uniqueness grows,
while at the same time my chances
of becoming a Balloonist
are all but squashed.
The triteness of this idea
almost makes me sick,
but yet neither can it’s truth be denied.
It is still possible for me to become a Balloonist,
but the reality of who I’ve become makes it impossible.
I simply will never do it.
I had a vision,
a day or two ago,
of what life here in my solitary apartment
could be like,
if I so chose.
I saw myself
in my bathtub at midday
splashing around with a rubber duck
I had bought on a whim,
and plastic boats
and expensive masculine bubble bath,
the noon heat forcing my bathroom
window open,
I would splash in silence,
in childlike reverence of living out
a boy’s fantasy:
a bath any way I like it.
But I will not do this,
not ever,
even though nothing at all is stopping me.
I have the time,
I have the money,
I have my own bathtub
and the lack of anyone else here
to stop me.
But I will not do this
because I am not that sort of man.
I am close to being that sort of man,
but not quite close enough.
I will continue to shower in the dark
while imagining fake interviews
with Larry King
(who is a big fan of my work)
unless there is a woman in the shower with me,
because I am the sort of man who showers with women
and imagines fake interviews
with Larry King.
I can vividly imagine a mountain’s peak
upon which I victoriously stand,
but in the viewfinder of your digital camera
you’ll never find me doing anything but driving
up mountains. By the easiest road.
Lately I have given much thought
to surprising everyone
and moving quite unexpectedly to Australia,
all by myself.
Why it is Australia, I don’t know,
but it seems like a lot of fun
and would be great to shock everyone with
and I’m sure the weather would greatly agree with me
and I have yet to sire any children to tie me to one place
or wed some poor sappy woman to hold me back
with her blowjobs and picture albums
(but she does look great in green)
so why not just pick up and go?
Ah. See, I actually am that sort of man,
who would do that sort of thing,
but there is now this other man inside me:
the one with a car payment,
credit card bills,
a 401k and offstreet parking
and just enough money for a plane ticket there.
I can’t leave part of me behind—
no more than a bird can leave it’s wings—
and so stay I must,
and swallow this unquenchable yearning,
this forlorn pit in the bottom of my stomach
(the soles of my feet)
that makes me want to run from this quiet life,
these phone calls and smoke-filled air,
these parking meters and ice cream cakes
to some other land where I can pretend
I’m as new as I seem to everyone else.
Tonight I will purchase from the Megastore
a camouflage baseball cap,
mid-quality hiking boots
and an insulated canteen
and tomorrow I will go to the mountains
by myself
and I won’t leave until I’ve done something
I would never do.
Who knows? Maybe start a fire with twigs,
or kill a bird with a stone,
or crest a peak somewhere using only my hands and feet.
I will become a different sort of man
if only to prove that life is not some senseless
falling-into of ways,
some boring rote self categorization
that benefits only topsoil and politicians.
I will touch your pregnant wife’s belly and I will whisper to it
of early mornings on beaches and lost loves in checkout lines.
.........................................................................
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
Thats pretty heavy... i like it alot.
This person is very important, no?
and again
probably another time as well
the ending, 'lost loves in checkout lines' evokes an emotion in me, one of fading away from a love (or relationship) that is over and gone
i have to think this work evokes some emotion in any reader who can look back at his/her life and then forward as well
good writing
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Thanks!!
upon which I victoriously stand,
but in the viewfinder of your digital camera
you’ll never find me doing anything but driving
up mountains. By the easiest road."
----
This part was perfection put to pen.
Isaw myself in that.
The 'loose' prose style is hard to put down yet still
see structre and rythym, yuve mastered it here.
I think you know this, but you dont need to go to all the places you described, because youre a natural writer...and have the ability to take yourself and us all, to these places mentally with your keyboard.
Id be curious to see you post this piece on an actual writers critique forum...they can be harsh, but one learns so much about the craft.
Heres a good one - http://www.writingforums.com
"A lie travels half-way around the world
before the truth can even gets its boots on to get out the door."
-Mark Twain
Yes, I am very important.
*gag* ^^ forget it!
"A lie travels half-way around the world
before the truth can even gets its boots on to get out the door."
-Mark Twain
Was clearly a joke!! (and more to the point, my way of saying I am the narrator of the poem)
Was obvious that it was clearly a joke, and it was obvious that you were the narrator....duh.
What was telling was the way you passed by several people who took the time to praise/discuss your work to flirt with a female poster.
Either youre very young or arent serious about writing at all...which is fine
But I do digress, youre not the type for that site...its for serious writers only, sorry!
"A lie travels half-way around the world
before the truth can even gets its boots on to get out the door."
-Mark Twain
haha! Ok, you're new around here, whatever. I was going down the thread and responding to people chronologocally, in the order they posted responses. Grow up; go back to your 'serious' board.
Olderman, you always have genuine kind words for my work. Thank ye. I hope the poem held up to multiple readings!
Thanks for following me over from my blog.
Im not new, dont always look at postcount silly.
Ive been reading the poems you post on here for long time.
Youre a good writer, nothing further to add now though.
"A lie travels half-way around the world
before the truth can even gets its boots on to get out the door."
-Mark Twain
Exactly! This sentence would also be a great title for something, don't you think?
As always, Fins, your words are not only very kind, but exactly what I needed to hear. Anytime I write something 'raw' like this, I worry that the perception of the piece will be that I was simply not technically skilled enough to hone it properly (or worse yet, I worry that is in fact the case); but as I read and re-read the piece, I couldn't help but feel that 'sharpening' it would detract from whatever power it has. Of course, when one is reading their own emotions it can be difficult to tell how good it is, so your praise and evaluation of the poem's voice and form is invaluable.
I've always noticed in our discussions that you may not be a huge fan of larkin (and you know of course that I adore his work). Is this the case, and if so, why not?
You're right, the poem is somehow more visually attractive on this board. And I do realize you've written 'raw' poems before, it's just more of a rarity. I'm used to a certain sound from you now so I get taken aback when it's a different sound...
You're welcome. As for Larkin, I admire his poetry very much, while disapproving of the end-of-empire, Tory viewpoint in his work. I think if one wanted to know the mindset of the more intelligent, suburban, right-wing Englishman in response to Britain's postwar decline as a superpower, Larkin's poetic voice speaks this definitively. Kavanagh did speak disparagingly of "Larkin and Logue/manufacturing fog" (I'm paraphrasing off the top of my head from one of his poems), but in fairness I think Larkin was good at sounding contemporary and direct, while balancing his language with a kind of repose and stateliness, or weary sadness.
You are much too biased.
I'm afraid I must admit to not knowing enough about British politics or history to know anything about this side of Larkin. When I come across this aspect of him in his 'Collected', I tend to slide past it, if you know what I mean. I'm still waiting on a decent biography that may enlighten me. Maeve Brennan's 'The Larkin I Knew' was painfully inadequate, and there seem to be others available, but for a steep price, used, from Amazon. I'm still trudging through his 'Letters', though, so perhaps eventually that shall enlighten me. It is how you ended you post that is what appeals to me so much about him: his 'kind of repose and stateliness, or weary sadness'. Also what i discern as an amazing ability to write in strict form with drawing your attention to it, an ability I can only dream of.
when you do wed down... i have a feeling that you'll both be quite satisfied
and you can get in the tub with your babyboy and blow up plastic boats with rubber duckies for hours, and no one will fault you for it
as always... my pleasure
PastaNazi!!!! I thought you had retired this moniker? It is darn nice to see it again! And it is very nice to be called manly...it is rare that my poetry has garnered me that adjective!
women's prerogative, donchaknow?
and to me, your poetry has always carried that theme... moreso than neruda... but not like Bukowski (he's a beast!)