Poem: The Glow From Either End

Ramble with me through the insecurities of the writer's life.

The Glow From Either End Two events came together for me tonight     and I can’t get the juxtaposition     out of my mind It’s been circling there, gaining altitude     in swirling updrafts, fighting my resolve     to bring it closer, make it land I should be a little drunk for this,     it’s really smoky bar-room conversation,     blurry as the third drink But we’ll try to make the best of it, you and I,     because we’re friends     and we’ll  pass the bottle back and forth The first was Esther’s slightly blitzed rambling,     that really wasn’t rambling at all,     but a truth she held out shakily More than that, a power of truths about me at least     and my usually agreeable,     ometimes disagreeable isolation She kept asking is anybody hearing this,     is any of it getting through at all,     this public display of my life and my art? Yeah Esther, it gets through to me     and maybe others here as well,     but who’s to say how it fits for each of us The second, a journalist looking for a twenty-minute     fix on Prague, blathering about whether     it’s really the Paris of the nineties Noticed that I didn’t fit the pattern, a gray-haired guy     among all these young aspiring writers     and how does that feel? I mumbled indistinctly about just doing the same thing     from the other end of life,     but I gotta tell you it’s uncomfortable, this question about which end of life I’m living Something I hadn’t thought about,     brought up by a stranger and I can’t shake it Juxtaposition, that’s the point I meant to make,     a shock to my system these two sides     of one question all in a night Esther’s is this getting through to anyone     thrown up against why are you doing     this sort of thing at this time in your life All kinds of flip answers come to mind     from not self-aware enough in my twenties     to ‘fuck off stranger, I’m busy’ But the question caught me cold, wouldn’t go away     and the closest I can come to answering     is because I am you I am you with gray hair, as good as the best,     bad as the worst, wondering if we’re right,     or need to be, or if it matters anyway I get owly, just like you do     when I’m not getting laid enough     and spend too much time owly,     chasing fractured chips of thought I get scared just like you do, about the money     and sometimes get too isolated, welcoming     the time alone, but wondering if someone will come along in time to shove me anything     that floats, a couple of bucks or a warm smile     or hands across my back There was a young woman in the park today, exotically     beautiful with a wide-brimmed hat,     shoulder bag and a confident, striding walk Came right at me across the grass, holding my eyes in hers     and glad to find me, like a friend she knew     and wasn’t it grand to see me there Passed me and sat down, not ten feet away     to smoke and read I expected that direct look to ask me if I knew the author,     would like a cigarette Too shy to start a conversation, I left, but there was this     pull not to leave, to know her story,     that we were lifelong friends, un-introduced And so, like Esther, I wonder if my life gets through      to anyone out there, if shyness is the universal thread     that makes a writer conjure words So we won’t pass each other in the park, but sit     and find the pieces of our lives that fit and bind them,     with no more effort than a printed word To paint and sculpt and craft a life that satisfies     a sense of worthiness from either end     of that burning candle that’s our lives The flame is just as bright from this end as from that,     and most of the striving is just the search for a match     that’s not too damp from sweat

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection BROKEN PIECES available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.