His ledger rife with minuses,
Two plus two never making four,
He put a rifle up his sinuses—
Nothing made sense anymore.
Recently Linked: My thanks to Elisabeth Hanscombe, who has just signed on as a follower. Elisabeth hails from Victoria, Australia and is a writer and psychologist who can be found writing on her blog , Sixth In Line.
An uncanny twinge when I read this poem, because when I awoke this morning the first thing that popped into my mind was a memory of a family friend back in my childhood, a man who was terrified to sit in our kitchen because of the color of the wall (maroon). Life didn't make sense to him either, as he did exactly what the person in your poem did, except with a shotgun. The mind is a strange thing--that memory has been overlaid, instead, by one in which I see only his face, with that familiar half-smile, remember again his shy laugh. For years I avoided buying anything the color of maroon and never knew why. How poems, randomly come upon, conjure up the most hidden memories. Things still don't make sense (to some of us). He (your "good-for-nothing") was obviously of some account, though, as you saw fit to record him--if only in drawing from the imagination. Thanks Vassilis.
ReplyDeleteA composite fictional image bringing together what my imagination saw fit to draw from my memory of friends and acquaintances who had chosen to take the ultimate step, this poem is perhaps too shallow,harsh and callous in its presentation of the suicide victim. That said, I appreciate your taking the time to share your memories of the family friend and to comment on the poem. Thanks again.
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