Jump to the poetry or specific poems:
Rewind - Now, Subway Smile, The Game, Hacker Haiku, Untitled, My Muse, or Mountains of the City.

Back when I was in high school and college, I used to write poetry. As I've mentioned in other places on the site, I'm a bit of a manic-depressive, with strong tendencies towards the depressive side. High school and college were particularly hard for me. I was at least 2 years younger than all of my classmates and easily performing way ahead of even the top students. I had little to no social life and, at least in high school, was generally ostracized.

So, when things would get particularly bad, I needed some outlet and then, as, it seems, now, the written word became my outlet. Most of what I wrote then was pretty bleak stuff and was destroyed shortly after being written. It was the act of writing that was cathartic, not an attempt to share it with the world.

However... I spent a lot of time in New York City. As a kid who lived in Jersey City, this meant a lot of time spent on the PATH and particularly in the 9th Street PATH station waiting for a train home on the weekends. Usually I'd spend my time there reading. But, at odd times, I would take to carrying a small (pocket-sized) looseleaf notepad with me in case I wanted to jot down some poetry. Some times, the pad would even go other places with me if I'd actually started something that I wanted to finish.

Even with that, there's very little that I ever wrote and, in retrospect, I don't know how well it's held up (or even if it was good to begin with), but here, for your reading pleasure, is the collection. If I feel a poem needs an introduction, that will be in italics before the poem itself. Also, I've tended to preserve the formatting that existed in the notepad unless I know that I didn't intend to break the lines that way.

Rewind

This was supposed to be the start of a "cycle" of poems that I wanted to write. The idea was that I would start at the end of the story ("Now") and then work backwards using ever-increasing time steps - 1 minute ago, 1 hour ago, 1 day ago, 1 week ago, 1 month ago, 1 year ago. The problem was that, while I had a great beginning/ending, I couldn't think of what to write for 1 minute ago.

Now I hear your footsteps click down the hallway Feeling each passing instant with every heartbeat Telling myself that you aren't really leaving I hear the rustle of cloth from your coat Wishing that this wasn't happening Thinking that we didn't mean the things we just said I whisper, "I'm sorry - I still love you." While the room ignores me And I hear the slamming of the door.

Subway Smile

Funny things happen when you're sitting in a subway station late at night.

Faces on a subway, Expressions alive, but trapped behind walls of steel Imprisoned in worlds of their own creation, Used to ignore their fellow travellers and the passing stations. But wait... A twinkle in an eye... A slight, shy hesitant smile... "Hello, I've not lost my humanity, either."

The Game

This was one of the longer poems that I wrote. I still like it very much (along with Mountains of the City) although it could definitely use some cleaning up. Figuring out what game I'm talking about is left as an exercise for the reader.

"Why can't I ever win?" said the gamer to the judge. I make the moves that others make;    I break the rules that others break; It seems like I've been playing for ever;    "So why can't I ever win?" I came to the game so full of hope,    knowing that I had the skill To win as I'd seen others do. "I didn't expect it to be so hard, or to sap so much from me.." But still the compulsion is there -    play and play for keeps. After all, what else is there to do here?    "So why can't I ever win?" The game has tried to break me,    throwing challenges to trick me, Giving up would be so easy now. "I didn't think that defeat was possible, I came so full of expectation." But spend enough time here and you can see -    bruised and battered gamers Who've given up, but not me.    "So why can't I ever win?"

Hacker Haiku

Appearing like dew Bugs creeping from the listings The system crashes.

Untitled

I never put a title on this one and still don't have an idea of a good one. It's worth noting that I was not seeing anyone at the time that I wrote this. It was just a quick stray thought that started from the first stanza and I wanted to develop it a little beyond that. On thinking about it, I'm not sure it actually needed development and might have well stood on its own.

Last night a summer breeze came by And whispered to me your name. It spoke of love and roses and a picnic in the rain. How strange it was to hear this soft whisper from the wind Telling me how to find you and of things that have not been. I have been alone a long time now, Each day very much the same. I never thought that I would hear A stray wind whisper to me your name.

My Muse

This one didn't have a title, but I think one suggested itself quite naturally. Again, this started from the first stanza and felt like it wanted to say more. Maybe some time I'll learn that less is better.

Ever now and then, My muse comes out to play Taunting me and telling The things that I should say. All too often, though, I find When I need her the most She vanishes into the air Like some etheral half-seen ghost.

Mountains of the City

I wish I could remember the frame of mind I was in when I wrote this. I vaguely recall that this one came out quickly and I was basically scribbling as fast as I could while my hind-brain was putting words together. If you like this poem, I'd strongly recommend rushing out and buying Greg Bear's Songs of Earth and Power from which it was mildly influenced.

A hush falls on the crowd as the players are about to begin. Ready to weave their magic spell    Reaching out to the throng, Touching their senses, their hearts,    Their souls. A power is about to be released here.    All can sense it and wait expectantly. Quietly, it starts    A soft yet shrill piping - timid but insistent    Joined quickly by more pipes and other instruments. And suddenly, the power is unleashed.    Eyes close as a different reality starts taking shape. Majestic mountains, desolate and barren, yet full of life. A solitary eagle winging its way around the peaks A soft whisper as the wind tousles the brush with a caress. And still the power builds    Crafting ever more complex images       trapping us at the mountain tops. We would be abandoned here    but for our musical guide.       A stranger in a wondrous land. Now the ground comes alive.    The plants and animals have come out to play, drawn by the lure of the music. They sense it and gather around wonderingly, entranced, as we are. Then suddenly, as quickly as it builds, it is gone. A sense of loss is almost palpable in the air. We have been to some place very    sacred and special but we cannot stay there. So we longingly turn away and resume    our weary travels. But every now and then, our thoughts drift and we    remember the magic.

Written by

All of the poetry above (and, indeed, the entire web site) are my work alone and may not be reproduced or excerpted in any form without my express permission. This permission probably will not be withheld but must be obtained nevertheless. Contact me (the author) at ben@tmk.com for this or any other purpose.

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