Prose Poem № 143754
Wonât Somebody Be My Friend
I am alone , from far off lands
Iâve walked the streets of old.
I have no roof to call my own,
I live out in the cold.
When I was young Iâd scamper âbout
with mum and dad and sis,
from place to place weâd travel on
I knew no life but this.
Weâd go from door to door in search
of food, and clothes and drink;
some gave us these though not enough
in sickness we did sink.
Till finally, I was alone,
death took us all but me.
How cruel lifeâs face shone that day
and it still seems to be.
The life I lived, I shudder to think
Iâve passed from year to year,
with no hopes, no hugs, no love
but only tears and fear.
People turn and laugh at me
and with their tongue abuse
âWhy donât you earn your livelihood
and make your self some use?â
No one would offer me a job
though they still thought I should.
To them I was untouchable
and of course, up to no good.
Iâve tried my hand at shoe shine
and selling papers in the street.
But all that I remember
is the scene of passing feet
-2-
And thus I lived from day to day
moving about was life.
Till in a land I know not which
I found myself a wife.
Together, somewhere, we lived sometime
I had a home at last.
The two of us, we made a team
and time passed very fast.
Fate seemed to have a hold on me
as it, my wife, did take.
I could not understand my plight
nor meaning of life make.
Into deeper despair I sank,
and into sickness too.
Lord, how I survived to this day,
Is absurd although itâs true!
Iâm eighty-seven years old now.
My feet and joints ache.
Iâve almost lost my eye sight
and my back does seem to break.
Iâve lived a hard and lonely life
Iâve lived off wastes and crumbs,
Iâve lived trough rain and sunshine,
Iâve lived in dirty slums.
And all Iâve asked these many years
is whether Heâs above
and whether Heâs the One called âjustâ
and whether He is love.
I do not seem to understand
What life is all about.
At times Iâd want my life to end
But then at times hope sprouts.
-3-
And so I live my last few days
It seems to me like this,
to share the story of my life
and what this big world gives.
I hope that my life story
will inspire hearts of stone
to feel the needs of others
especially of those alone.
I have no home or fortune
I know not what is fame
and when I leave this hard world back
no one will know my name.
Yet, there is hope that someday
I will certainly find
true love and joy and happiness
from what I leave behind.
10 comments
Death's face could be elaborated on, its the one bit that interested me.
Needs to be shorter and more impacting.
There are some lines/passages in here which are very forced; these really ought to be worked out - if you're telling a tale, keep the sentence structure pretty much identical to how it would be if you were writing this as a chunk of prose.
I'll let somebody else take over here...
the story is anything but inspiring. there is nothing that tells how you overcame adversity, how you persevered when times were tough, just that you did, somehow. also the part about just "getting a wife" seems a bit too glossed over. she just felt bad for you and married you and took you into her life?
i appreciate what you are trying to do here, but it lacks substance, soul, and compassion of its own. it comes across as only a self-pitying plea.
You ask, what 'did' he leave behind? I tell you he left us an awareness that there are people who need people like you and me to take note of them, not for our full pockets, but perhaps a look, a word of cheer, a smile.
the other interesting part of your response is that i do, in fact, the very thing you suggest. i do acknowledge folks "on the street". i do not offer words of cheer; those sentiments are usually the last thing a person on the skids wants to hear; it comes off callous on the cheermaker's part. instead, if i don't merely catch their eye and nod in acknowledgement, i listen to their plea (or more often their con line) and reply simply, "i cannot help you". The meaning behind my words is that the best person to help them is themselves, especially so the further down they have fallen. it is a credo i live by myself, and i have accepted very little help getting to where i am, and what help i have received has almost always been repaid as best as i am able. i do not believe in handouts.
all that being said, the intent of my original comment was not as much to do with the subject or even the content, but more in the way in which you have presented it. if, as you have said in the response above, you are relating this tale so that readers will feel the needs of others, perhaps you could make more of a point addressing those who do not feel your subject's needs. perhaps write about those who do not take notice. it starts to remind me of the song by the Pet Shop Boys, "the Theatre". Not much in the way of peotry, but:
http://www.lyricsdepot.com/pet-shop-boys
in parting, i would like to point out another line in your comment above.
"Not having material wealth is one thing, but having a feeling of lon[e]liness with no one to share your suffering is an agony in itself."
Basically, you are sayiong that misery loves company. I always found that to be a selfish sentiment to harbor. if i am miserable why would i want anyone else to suffer the same? just so they can feel my pain? to what end? so they will help me? PAH!
As for the bottle....I was merely suggesting a possibility based on the normal trend that's present in today's world. If it has offended you, then.... I'm sorry. But no harm meant.
And about taking note of people... well, that's a very hard thing to do. There was a time when I used to meet a poor old woman who used to sit by the church gate and beg. I was broke then, and I used to tell her that I couldn't help her by giving her anything. And she used to get offended. Ans slowly I began to talk to her frequently. The best part was that I couldn't understand her language (we have umpteen languages in India) and she couldn't understand mine. It was more like sign language from my part. But this bent up old lady would wait for me to come there freuently and start pouring out all that she kept in her heart to share with me. She used to be so ecstatic by the end of each session that I got used to enjoying it too. And finally if I'd give her any money she'd take and give it to another beggarwoman near by.
This used to confuse me quite a lot, and in time I began to realize that it was friendship she sought. This is just an example of what I've been trying to explain. Feel the needs of others. It's not that you don't have anything to give.
And for them to help themselves.... if we who are educated and have an advantage start in life can't make ends meet, how can they who are deprived of almost everything in life except their life help themselves. Think about it.
again i will say that i think that your sentiment is dead on; it is the way that you have portrayed the story that brings down your very good idea. this can be reworked or even re-written in
an entirely new work. i don't mean to discourage my any means. in fact, a poem about your expereinces with the old woman at the church would be an excellent piece to read. and you could still make the point that you are making in this piece, but from another angle; it may even be more powerful.
regarding the "help yourself"... it is not simply education or inherent opportunity that i believe in. it is spirit. those who are not the entitled, not the brightest, not the physically strong, can still persevere as long as they have the spirit to do so. one whose spirit has been quashed has but two options: give up or persevere. if one is to be beaten, defying defeat is the most triumphant thing a being can do. at least i think so.
Then an angel came to apologize
-"We just noticed your last name's Bitler."-
-"Turns out all this terrible time
we thought we were screwing with Hitler."
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