I was alone.
I saw no one.
And then I saw someone, a middle-aged woman.
And then I saw a man who was noticing me,
And then I saw a man with a dog,
And then I saw a young man who was looking far away.
But I couldn't take any more
Of seeing random people,
So I closed my eyes
And I prayed Dear God
Take away these people
And he did and I thanked Him
So now I am alone again
Seeing no one.
..............
Reflection:This poem haunts me. I wrote it after reading David Ignatow's poetry (in a book I found at a moving sale, a collection of his selected poems edited by Robert Bly). He was one of my go-to poets early on, when I was a young man. His language was so accessible and grounded, no tricks, no fluff, no fancy metaphors, just everyday language. But his poems conjure big questions for me, so I admired him. He influenced how I approached poetry for a long time, for years. He was just the guy for me when I was trying to get my feet under me, dealing with a young-man inflation. Maybe I was identifying with my language and sensing that that path led nowhere. Now that is not a problem for me. At 74 I do not identify with my language, but with what is living in my poetry. I know who I am and I use language as a vehicle or a means to get at my truth, which is always pacing around in my heart just waiting for me to conjure an adequate metaphor.
So, now, back to my haunting poem Alone. Is the poet playing dumb? Doesnt he know that by asking God to sweep away his awareness of the random people around him, he will only be left with himself for company, and, I suppose, God?
I have, especially of late, entertained the question of what my life would have been like if I had joined a brotherhood in a monastery, choosing the contemplative life, the opposite of a life of random events and unpredictable interactions with strangers. In other words, What if I had chosen a prayerful life of structured-in intentionality, with minimum distractions? Would such a simple, mindful life-path have zenified me, rarifying my experience to the bare bones of what was real, and never mind all the rest? For example, would I know what a flower really is, a tree, the act of watering a garden, spreading butter on a piece of toast? Having a cold? A wayward negative emotion? I think this poem questions the legitimacy of that path for me, or actually answers that question. I think it is saying. If you eliminate random people, or random anything, you are in essence closing your eyes to possibility, the possibility of random relationship.
One thing I have learned by devoting so much of life to writing is, writing is only alive if it is read. Think of all the writing in the world that goes unread?? Very, very amazing books and poems and letters have been stacking up for centuries, and the writers of those writings? Most are gone. Long gone.
What is alive, in the world of letters, is what is being read and shared and discussed. This poem Alone is a poem on the edge. It is not a fun poem to read. It may not be read by too many people, and, unless I am intentional about it, it wont be a poem I pick to share at readings. But I think it carries an important message, in the bare-bone-language that I learned from Ignatow. This could be a modern companion poem to Rumi's poem "Dont go back to sleep", a Sufi call to awakening. But as a stand-alone poem, I think it will just fall under its own spell, perduring alone.
(Article changed on Oct 26, 2025 at 12:46 PM EDT)
(Article changed on Oct 26, 2025 at 2:30 PM EDT)
