I was looking through all my old poems
deciding what to read in front of an audience
in front of friends and strangers and spirits
looking through to find those verses
that will be enjoyed the best and will
touch the hearts of people I've never met
and kiss the souls of people I've known forever
and then I realized that I can't
I won't read to them this drek that
somehow remained hidden in my library
that apparently I wrote
because as much as people tell me
how wonderful a poet I am
I know I don't believe them
that despite the times I've heard
"Oh, that's so beautiful"
I still wonder how they see it
because even if these old pages still
inspire laughter and tears in nameless faces
they no longer do to me
I reread "why," recalling the bitter hatred
that bled itself through my pen and
onto innocent leaves, but not feeling it
I glance at "ocean" and "pemaquid" and
remember how I could smell the salt
in the air and hear the waves crashing
against rocks and see you
sitting next to me as I wrote them
in my dining room
but now the smell won't come
I suppose I even can imagine the love
that entered a hundred pieces dedicated
to women that have since forgotten my name
as I tried to say what words cannot
but the memory is a hollow one
and the vision quickly fades
no, I cannot
I will not read those to you
for they were written by someone else
someone dead and gone and barely remembered
so I brought nothing
except silence

12/16/2001

Posted on 12/16/2001
Copyright © 2025 Gary Hoffmann