The Closet
grooveamatic
Posts: 1,374
so, this poem was difficult for me, in a few ways. first, the content is that of a difficult memory for me, so it was slightly uncomfortable. secondly, it is a narrative poem, which I find difficult to make sound good and flow with any sense of poetic timing or verbage. But I felt it was something I had to write. anyway, the point of all this is: criticism is extremely welcome. please help me to make this more of a well-written poem and less of a conversational confession! thanks in advance for any help.
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I remember once being especially drunk
and in a walk-in closet--
this was in college, mind you,
in an apartment I shared with five other guys,
so the closet was full of traffic cones
and Slim Jim boxes--
crying my ass off and mad as hell
because She had just come to see me
(as per my request, so I could give her my new
book of poetry which was entirely about how
angry she made me)
and She had refused to tell me she loved me
or kiss me
or something like that;
the roommates had locked me in there
so I couldn't storm into the night
ranting like a bastard about how much I hated Her;
I passed out and woke up quite a few times in there
(there was of course some beer in there with me)
and I just got angrier and angrier
and more and more confused
until I had forgotten where I was
and why I was angry
and it morphed into something akin to terror;
I started calling for help
as though I were trapped in a well
or a darkened coal shaft;
I kept on drinking and smoking cigarettes
(the spark of the lighter and the ember glow
of the smoke the only light or solace:
they somehow made things more terrifying)
until I quite honestly forgot who I was;
I was a creature
(a man? a woman?
a darling confused child?
a wildebeast?
How could I be sure?)
who was trapped,
too drunk to sort through it
& too angry and scared to even slow my breathing;
I stopped yelling
and began clawing at the walls,
sure there was an opening somewhere,
hoping a shaft of light would somehow appear.
Eventually I even forgot to drink or smoke
& simply became lividly frightened;
I'm sure it would have appeared hilarious to an onlooker,
this short angry drunkard in hysterics in a walk-in closet;
the most awful things can be so funny to other people.
I must have tired myself out quite a bit,
because I awoke to the door opening the next morning
(the light immediately baking my skin)
to the visages of serious-eyed roommates
who had been as frightened by my nighttime predicament
as I had been.
Upon my emergence
they didn't laugh at my urine-soaked pants
nor did they gasp as I opened a beer
within 2 minutes of being awake;
they simply spoke softly to me
in the understanding tones
of people who are watching other people die.
What matters most to those of us on the dying end of things
is how well others disguise the pity on their faces,
and how convincingly they can speak of the future.
if you didn't know, i'm a fan of the narrative...so, that doesn't bother me. the timing doesn't bother me either.
from my window to yours
beautifully put...
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
I to am a fan of narrative. Wish I could write like that. Well done.
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
YOu don't think there is anything--specifically or generally--that would make that last stanza (or last 2 stanzas) more effective?
and thanks, btw--very kind of you!!!!
Even your long stuff is never boring.