Thread: For the sap a floor above me

I have this nasty habit
of reading poems
backwards
not by line
or word
but by stanza
I told the young man
who was sitting
in my living room
then I smirked
and sipped the ale
he had brought with him

numerous times he would be
at my doorstep
liquor in hand
usually wearing buttoned plaid shirts
and always
carrying pen and paper
for inspiration
that could pass at any moment
he would say

an average poet at best
I thought
he routinely used words like
"crimson and sorrow
void, soul, darkness
love
weep
pain
and agony"
all the words that echo
sadness and regret
still I listened

I made it to his place
only once
upon entering
I noticed poems
which he scribbled
all over his apartment

the writings on the wall, literally
he said to me
with a chuckle
I dismissed him
as one of the worst saps
I had ever met

so when his book
got published
I immediately went out
and bought it
for reasons of envy and bitterness
I suppose

months later
I would come to find
that the grief stricken lad
got so enamored with his own sorrow
ended his life
in undramatic fashion
and ill-gotten timing

while I
the more terrible of the two
live on

and during those
witless nights
when I'm feeling
average
at best
I rip out a page
from the saps book

and sometimes
they hang on my wall.

I really like this a lot, it has a tenderness toward people who are hurting even if the narrator doesn't entirely share it. I'll leave it to those much more versed in poetry than I am to do the heavy-duty critiquing. Good imagery, excellent small storyline, overall it captured me. Thanks for sharing.

I could blah blah about punctuation, but I won't. I have no desire to alter your work, I bathe in it as it is. You got me feeling, which is something I seldom do. Kudos. Forgive my brevity, computer is a mess, screen keeps going opaque, arrow turns into a pulsating circle, and then the damn thing overheats. I had to be quick to get this in.

A sad story and you told it well, Whit. Love the honesty that comes through in this stanza

so when his book
got published
I immediately went out
and bought it
for reasons of envy and bitterness
I suppose

Much enjoyed!

I read this last night, and also now. This stanza struck me for more than just its wonderful construction.

months later
I would come to find
that the grief stricken lad
got so enamored with his own sorrow
ended his life
in undramatic fashion
and ill-gotten timing

We have writers out here that think this IS the life of a writer. Some melodramatic bittersweet sorrow that is going to plunge them into the fiery pits of emotional hell ! " WTF ? " Hemingway offed himself NOT because he was a writer, but because he was an emotionally unstable man who for whatever reason couldn't walk the hard road. While I would appreciate your man's skill in writing , I would not be inclined to enhance his attributes due to his death.

Sorry about the rant. That kinda mentality tends to get under my skin ! lol

I did enjoy your write though

Good to know you enjoyed it, if you enjoyed it that is. I appreciate your comments.

Maggie, I'm afraid you lost me. I'm not really sure what you mean. My friend had no skill in writing. He was a sap. He is dead. He was my friend. Nothing enhanced. If you mean I think his work is great because he's dead, could not be more wrong. But sappy poetry or not, sometimes I want to remember my friend.