Stay gold, Ponyboy
This is something that made me so angry, I just cant stop ranting about it:
First, the poem in question:
"To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like A Death"
In today's paper, a story about our high school drama
teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment
made me ache to call you - the only person I know
who'd still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-
absorption. We'd laugh (at what haven't we laughed?), then
not laugh, wondering what became of him. But I can't call,
because I don't know what became of you.
- After sixty years, with no explanation, you're suddenly
not there. Gone. Phone disconnected. I was afraid
you might be dead. But you're not dead.
You've left, your landlord says. He has your new unlisted
number but insists on "respecting your privacy." I located
your oldest son, who refuses to tell me anything except that
you're alive and not ill. Your ex-wife ignores my letters.
What's happened? Are you in trouble? Something
you've done? Something I've done?
We used to tell each other everything: our automatic
reference points to childhood pranks, secret codes,
and sexual experiments. How many decades since we started
singing each other "Happy Birthday" every birthday?
(Your last uninhibited rendition is still on my voice mail.)
How often have we exchanged our mutual gratitude - the easy
unthinking kindnesses of long friendship.
This mysterious silence isn't kind. It keeps me
up at night, bewildered, at some "stage "of grief.
Would your actual death be easier to bear?
I crave your laugh, your quirky takes, your latest
comedy of errors. "When one's friends hate each other,"
Pound wrote near the end of his life, "how can there be
peace in the world?" We loved each other. Why why why
am I dead to you?
Our birthdays are looming. The older I get, the less and less
I understand this world,
and the people in it.
This was my comment to it. Because the poem was fucking horrible. Like. Made me angry bad. Even listened to the author read it, still angry at it bad:
nprfreshair:
By Lloyd Schwartz
In today’s paper, a story about our high school drama
teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment
made me ache to call you - the only person I know
who’d still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-
absorption. We’d laugh (at what haven’t we laughed?),…
Really? This is terrible. Not the events described, but the poem. Like, I would have given positive yet constructive criticism in my high school lit mag meetings then given a firm thumbs down to this kind of thing.
I re-read it three times to make sure I was not misreading, but no, sir, I am sorry: this is terrible. So much telling, so little showing of your actual emotions or thoughts, if that is what you were trying to get across. Things you think are details that are so universal as to mean nothing, in terms of telling. No. No details of how your teacher thought he was charming (did he throw a smile over his shoulder? Did he wink? Did he have what he thought was a charming half-smile? What?). What did your friends last birthday song to you sound like? Reckless? Like he knew it was his last? Like he did not know it was his last?
So much you could have said here.
I am sorry for your loss, but I am sorry I am not more sorry. Because I could not care, based on your poem.
I read this poem, and there was this guy
someone he and friend had known had died.
This guy who died, he did these things and it was really unspecific
but the guy who died made the first guy
think of this other guy.
The first guy couldnt get ahold of the second guy and it was a bummer.
He tried, but, you know
man, too bad.
silence is like a death
I heard that someplace
---------------------------------
I realize I misread some things (the friend who left the birthday song is not dead, but my question remains: did he know it was the last time he was going to sing Happy Birthday to you? Because it sounds like it was a while back, not your most recent birthday. And all the other questions about the song remain), but still. This reads as a high school poem that everyone hides after high school, unless I am just wrong? Is this a noble peon to a lost teacher, and lost friend? Please let me know if I have lost touch with reality and am living in some kind of Philip K Dick world. Because, I will say again, this poem is fucking terrible.
(Something Ive done? You havent spoken in 60 years and the guy has left VM on your phone for your birthday and you ask if it is something youve done?? Arugh I cant even so angry at this poem)
First, the poem in question:
"To My Oldest Friend, Whose Silence Is Like A Death"
In today's paper, a story about our high school drama
teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment
made me ache to call you - the only person I know
who'd still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-
absorption. We'd laugh (at what haven't we laughed?), then
not laugh, wondering what became of him. But I can't call,
because I don't know what became of you.
- After sixty years, with no explanation, you're suddenly
not there. Gone. Phone disconnected. I was afraid
you might be dead. But you're not dead.
You've left, your landlord says. He has your new unlisted
number but insists on "respecting your privacy." I located
your oldest son, who refuses to tell me anything except that
you're alive and not ill. Your ex-wife ignores my letters.
What's happened? Are you in trouble? Something
you've done? Something I've done?
We used to tell each other everything: our automatic
reference points to childhood pranks, secret codes,
and sexual experiments. How many decades since we started
singing each other "Happy Birthday" every birthday?
(Your last uninhibited rendition is still on my voice mail.)
How often have we exchanged our mutual gratitude - the easy
unthinking kindnesses of long friendship.
This mysterious silence isn't kind. It keeps me
up at night, bewildered, at some "stage "of grief.
Would your actual death be easier to bear?
I crave your laugh, your quirky takes, your latest
comedy of errors. "When one's friends hate each other,"
Pound wrote near the end of his life, "how can there be
peace in the world?" We loved each other. Why why why
am I dead to you?
Our birthdays are looming. The older I get, the less and less
I understand this world,
and the people in it.
This was my comment to it. Because the poem was fucking horrible. Like. Made me angry bad. Even listened to the author read it, still angry at it bad:
nprfreshair:
By Lloyd Schwartz
In today’s paper, a story about our high school drama
teacher evicted from his Carnegie Hall rooftop apartment
made me ache to call you - the only person I know
who’d still remember his talent, his good looks, his self-
absorption. We’d laugh (at what haven’t we laughed?),…
Really? This is terrible. Not the events described, but the poem. Like, I would have given positive yet constructive criticism in my high school lit mag meetings then given a firm thumbs down to this kind of thing.
I re-read it three times to make sure I was not misreading, but no, sir, I am sorry: this is terrible. So much telling, so little showing of your actual emotions or thoughts, if that is what you were trying to get across. Things you think are details that are so universal as to mean nothing, in terms of telling. No. No details of how your teacher thought he was charming (did he throw a smile over his shoulder? Did he wink? Did he have what he thought was a charming half-smile? What?). What did your friends last birthday song to you sound like? Reckless? Like he knew it was his last? Like he did not know it was his last?
So much you could have said here.
I am sorry for your loss, but I am sorry I am not more sorry. Because I could not care, based on your poem.
I read this poem, and there was this guy
someone he and friend had known had died.
This guy who died, he did these things and it was really unspecific
but the guy who died made the first guy
think of this other guy.
The first guy couldnt get ahold of the second guy and it was a bummer.
He tried, but, you know
man, too bad.
silence is like a death
I heard that someplace
---------------------------------
I realize I misread some things (the friend who left the birthday song is not dead, but my question remains: did he know it was the last time he was going to sing Happy Birthday to you? Because it sounds like it was a while back, not your most recent birthday. And all the other questions about the song remain), but still. This reads as a high school poem that everyone hides after high school, unless I am just wrong? Is this a noble peon to a lost teacher, and lost friend? Please let me know if I have lost touch with reality and am living in some kind of Philip K Dick world. Because, I will say again, this poem is fucking terrible.
(Something Ive done? You havent spoken in 60 years and the guy has left VM on your phone for your birthday and you ask if it is something youve done?? Arugh I cant even so angry at this poem)