Confusion

I'll start off with a piece written solely for this blog. I wrote this a few weeks ago, as part of my never-ending experimentation with poems, especially free form ones. I'm addicted to archaic and more structured forms like sonnets, and I love playing with rhyme and meter, but it can make the poem sound silly. I've tried to break my addiction to meter and rhyme here, and I the result has ended up being pretty good.

The poem itself describes an experience I had last winter. I was studying for exams, and I think I had been alone in the library for around twelve noiseless hours. It was 2 AM, and I was taking the long way home just to enjoy the scenic route. Where I live is full of old colonial buildings, and if I take the long way back from the library, I'm able to see some of the nicest ones. It was frigidly cold, and I was trying desperately to keep warm as I walked. I had my ipod on, and Synthesizer by Electric Six came on the shuffle. Now, in my city is an old electric power plant. It's a great, big building with these three huge smokestacks. I love the place. It reminds me of my city before all the industry dried up, and all the mills and factories were bulldozed to be replaced with vacant lots and urban sprawl. Now, in a city devoid of real industry, this huge power plant still belches smoke into a vacant sky. Each smokestack has two little red lights on it that blink on and off. As I walked, I was watching these lights, and the music in my ears was reaching a dizzy peak. These weird nonsensical thoughts kept popping into my head. I was then reminded that I had no idea what I was doing with my life. I'm not just talking about career choices, but rather, a more existential confusion. I had no idea what I was doing with the existence that was granted me, and I had no idea why things made so little sense. I kept begging the void to bring some sort of flow or logic into me. The thoughts rushed at me so fast, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed by a deep sadness.

I stood on the street near the president of my University's house, and stared at the smokestacks. Those blinking lights are irresistibly calming, and I must have stood there for ten minutes just watching. With my ipod off, all I could hear was the distant cries of sirens, and that ubiquitous hum of civilization. Then, a cop drove by and wanted to know if I was OK. I told him I was and went home. The feelings I had that night were utterly inexplicable, and I'm still not sure what possessed me to stand in the freezing cold and watch those damned lights. This poem represents my best interpretation of those emotions. Please post any criticisms you might have.




The sky was clear
And the wind was weak
When the six fold lights glazed off the beacon towers
And smoke poured into the sky
Tired from endless hours and endless lines of text
A traveler emerged from a sullen room and walked towards home

Far off sounds echoed
And scattered on the ground
The empty streets
Devoid of any other soul
Beckoned with their mystery
And the flashing of their signals

Entranced, and fatigued, the traveler marched onward
A strange confusion brewing in his brain
Why should he walk, or study still
The ancient books and lore
Why go on walking, ever towards home?
What purpose was there yet?

And as he walked, his footsteps echoed
Counting out all the lost moments
Keeping time with a deaf rhythm
That never quit its pounding
Just as the traveler walked, with mind aflutter
Towards the house on the hill

As he marched forward
With sure and focused desperation
A chorus, marked by chaos and dismay
Played in his ears, perhaps by choice
As he watched the flashing flares, he could not know
In what direction he headed, or why

Once there, he beheld, that mundane ecstasy
Of that which is so oft ignored, beauty
Of things that are not beauteous
Save in times of weakness, or in doubt
The brilliance of red, crossing the brilliance of white
In disorganized patterns, to disorganized places

The city howled ceaselessly
As a howling within the soul of the traveler
Forced him to stop, and watch
Frozen for so many long minutes
Weak in the face of such horrid grandeur
Weak under the heaviness of something far more desperate

As time passed it became clear
What hung in the air was a gaping question
That will never get an answer
And, ragged, still hangs bleeding in the sky
Who's very sight fixes the traveler in place
And taunts him with what he does not know

How long could he wait, here in isolation?
His eyes searching for the object
That would sum and answer all his fears
The freezing cold air weighed heavily
Crushing the traveler under an ocean of dread
That such things were not meant to be

Before long, a second traveler
From some other place, with some other destination
Found the first, and then inquired after him
Asking, "Friend, are you well?"
Stirred from his torpor, the first replied, "Of course."
And the moment was lost, like the smoke from the tower

The first wandered away from his perch
High on the hill, overlooking the burning pyre
Of the corpse-pile that powered the city
And, dazed, returned to his life
Weaker, ever weaker
In the face of such ambiguity