A POET'S TALE
I heard stories about my Great Great Uncle, about how he had died an unsuccessful poet. And it is fabled that he died at his desk with his pen in his hand. And I having such a curious nature, and being informed of his one surviving son, wasted not a moment and called him and was soon invited to his home early one afternoon. And before I knew it I stood at his door; and when he opened it he smiled genuinely and invited me inside. The house was softly lighted, and there were polished wooden floors and bookcases; and when I turned to look at the Maplewood desk which sat alone in the corner of the room, the man interrupted my gaze.
"That was my father's desk" he said.
What I had not known was that my Great Great Uncle once lived in that very house, and worked at that very desk. My eyes sparkled as he began to tell this story:
My father sat at that desk and wrote poems; he could write anything: rhyme and prose, parody, sonnets and satire, eclogues, epistles, epigrams and epitaphs, lyric, limerick, haiku, imitation, insult, ballads and the blues. He wrote in the morning and in the evening. He wrote on the weekends. He wrote when he was happy and when he was sick. And he would walk to the mailbox to send out his work, through the rain and through the snow; and everyday he would sort through his mail for a letter of acceptance, but everyday he returned to his desk with only his pen. Now the years passed and my father still waited for the mail. By this time, his thick black hair had turned shiny white. And he wrote and wrote, and he walked to the mailbox and back through the rain and snow; and his pile of poems grew, for each poem did seem better than the one before it. Until the day he knew he had just written his very best poem. And so, he packed up his work and went to pay the Editors a visit himself.
Well, when he got there the waiting room was filled with thirty-two other poets who had just written their very best poem; and he found himself a spot to stand between a little old lady and a teenaged boy. Of course, this was a well mannered group; but even a civilized poet under such confined circumstances might have found the others irritating. And there was one outburst: A young woman gave up and walked out leaving an empty seat; two men went for it, and it did appear that one man pushed the other a bit too hard, and the one left standing--a tall, dark haired, big eyed poet, wearing a black velvet coat and silk ascot, looked down at the man in the seat and said calmly, "Your rudeness shines like a starlit night." And then he turned his chin.
The poets waited and waited. They stared at the big door that read, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, but it never opened up. They waited and waited, and stared and stared, and the sky darkened and they left. My father waited the longest and returned to his Maplewood desk the next morning. But what happened that day to my father begins the fate of an unsuccessful poet: He lost his focus.
"His focus?" I inquired.
Yes indeed! The dictionary says focus is: a point of concentration, the center of attention, the center of attraction, the center of an activity, emphasis, direction, it is the ability to bring about something. Well, these are the very things an unsuccessful poet needs to become successful! His focus just got up and left--I guess it got fed up. And you can anticipate the natural result of such a happening; my father's thoughts began to overload; words and phrases and colors and imagery, and measures and meters and music whirled through his head like a tornado; but he couldn't arrange them. And his head grew heavy and he began to slump at his desk. Luckily his focus did return, well temporarily anyway, and not the same way it had always been. But my father was happy to use his pen again and he continued writing greeting cards at his desk.
He wrote Birthday and Anniversary cards, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Graduation, Happy Retirement, Baptism and Bar mitzvah, and he did hold his head up a bit straighter--and although he did enjoy the Sympathy card, Happy Christmas was his best: He wrote of winter nights, snow covered hills, reindeer trails and snow dusted trees; but he soon slumped again in his chair. And everyday his head grew heavy and he slumped more and more at his desk; and he wrote and slumped, and wrote and slumped; and he slumped and slumped and died writing a Christmas wish. And it read:
Reindeer hooves through a snowy wood
Christmas night has brought them back;
And they walk for as long as they could
Beneath the stars without sleigh and sack,
They soon will stop beyond the trees to rest
And their antlers frost with snow
Then turn away from this season's best:
Its warmth and gifts and they will go,
They could go back the way they came
But choose perhaps the longer way
To dream of next year just about the same
And save their flight for some other day.
"So what exactly did he die from?" I asked plainly.
The death certificate states my father died of natural causes. I'd say that's explanation enough; he died from thinking his own useless thoughts. You see, there are only so many thoughts the human brain can manage at once, and without a place to put them--well, they will destroy the very thing that created them. That is what happened to my father; it is the natural result for an unsuccessful poet.
I listened politely to this man talk well into the night about my Great Great Uncle; about how he could write anything. And it was much too late when I turned my eyes from his Maplewood desk and set out for home a lot less curious than I had arrived.
~V
"That was my father's desk" he said.
What I had not known was that my Great Great Uncle once lived in that very house, and worked at that very desk. My eyes sparkled as he began to tell this story:
My father sat at that desk and wrote poems; he could write anything: rhyme and prose, parody, sonnets and satire, eclogues, epistles, epigrams and epitaphs, lyric, limerick, haiku, imitation, insult, ballads and the blues. He wrote in the morning and in the evening. He wrote on the weekends. He wrote when he was happy and when he was sick. And he would walk to the mailbox to send out his work, through the rain and through the snow; and everyday he would sort through his mail for a letter of acceptance, but everyday he returned to his desk with only his pen. Now the years passed and my father still waited for the mail. By this time, his thick black hair had turned shiny white. And he wrote and wrote, and he walked to the mailbox and back through the rain and snow; and his pile of poems grew, for each poem did seem better than the one before it. Until the day he knew he had just written his very best poem. And so, he packed up his work and went to pay the Editors a visit himself.
Well, when he got there the waiting room was filled with thirty-two other poets who had just written their very best poem; and he found himself a spot to stand between a little old lady and a teenaged boy. Of course, this was a well mannered group; but even a civilized poet under such confined circumstances might have found the others irritating. And there was one outburst: A young woman gave up and walked out leaving an empty seat; two men went for it, and it did appear that one man pushed the other a bit too hard, and the one left standing--a tall, dark haired, big eyed poet, wearing a black velvet coat and silk ascot, looked down at the man in the seat and said calmly, "Your rudeness shines like a starlit night." And then he turned his chin.
The poets waited and waited. They stared at the big door that read, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, but it never opened up. They waited and waited, and stared and stared, and the sky darkened and they left. My father waited the longest and returned to his Maplewood desk the next morning. But what happened that day to my father begins the fate of an unsuccessful poet: He lost his focus.
"His focus?" I inquired.
Yes indeed! The dictionary says focus is: a point of concentration, the center of attention, the center of attraction, the center of an activity, emphasis, direction, it is the ability to bring about something. Well, these are the very things an unsuccessful poet needs to become successful! His focus just got up and left--I guess it got fed up. And you can anticipate the natural result of such a happening; my father's thoughts began to overload; words and phrases and colors and imagery, and measures and meters and music whirled through his head like a tornado; but he couldn't arrange them. And his head grew heavy and he began to slump at his desk. Luckily his focus did return, well temporarily anyway, and not the same way it had always been. But my father was happy to use his pen again and he continued writing greeting cards at his desk.
He wrote Birthday and Anniversary cards, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Graduation, Happy Retirement, Baptism and Bar mitzvah, and he did hold his head up a bit straighter--and although he did enjoy the Sympathy card, Happy Christmas was his best: He wrote of winter nights, snow covered hills, reindeer trails and snow dusted trees; but he soon slumped again in his chair. And everyday his head grew heavy and he slumped more and more at his desk; and he wrote and slumped, and wrote and slumped; and he slumped and slumped and died writing a Christmas wish. And it read:
Reindeer hooves through a snowy wood
Christmas night has brought them back;
And they walk for as long as they could
Beneath the stars without sleigh and sack,
They soon will stop beyond the trees to rest
And their antlers frost with snow
Then turn away from this season's best:
Its warmth and gifts and they will go,
They could go back the way they came
But choose perhaps the longer way
To dream of next year just about the same
And save their flight for some other day.
"So what exactly did he die from?" I asked plainly.
The death certificate states my father died of natural causes. I'd say that's explanation enough; he died from thinking his own useless thoughts. You see, there are only so many thoughts the human brain can manage at once, and without a place to put them--well, they will destroy the very thing that created them. That is what happened to my father; it is the natural result for an unsuccessful poet.
I listened politely to this man talk well into the night about my Great Great Uncle; about how he could write anything. And it was much too late when I turned my eyes from his Maplewood desk and set out for home a lot less curious than I had arrived.
~V
