Thematics, Angst, & Non Rhyme

When I was trying to write poetry, I rarely created or reflected issues of substance. I found myself writing what I liked to read. The vast majority of my poems were mundane snapshots or free verse vignettes. In this respect they were, at best, considered amateurish. A valid criticism, I think. But as I have always appreciated ambiguity, open-endedness, and simplicity, my poetry succeeded in that it accomplished what was intended—which, largely, was nothing in particular. Occasionally, I would toy with internal rhyme or a rhyme scheme noticeable to no one but me. Often the scheme would (unintentionally) end up as a variation of iambic pentameter—it was merely the way the words came out.

I appreciated the themes that occasionally showed themselves in much the way I appreciate Edward Hopper’s work. Fret not, my arrogance does not run deep enough to compare my word to Hopper’s stroke. I speak only of thematic aspirations. See, Hopper conveyed aloneness, loneliness, silent angst, and pensiveness as it had never before been conveyed. My goal (if indeed I had one) was to do something similar, with as few words as possible. Just as he had done with a sparse and simple style.

These words happened a couple weeks ago. Even with the long break, I find I haven’t matured a whit in the ways of verse. But I’m okay with that. It feels good to have even had the urge.

First Poem

The night is neither elegant
nor elegiac.
Perhaps salacious. The moon
purrs light
like whispers in a closet.
My heartbeat is a murmur,
a stutter.
A sigh my only company.
The telephone
does not ring. But if it did,
the silence
on the other end would be
omniscient.

What does it mean? Oh, nothing really. A snapshot of an evening. Maybe something to make me begin again.

It certainly isn’t my Nighthawks. But, truly, what could be?