My friend Debbie is a wonderful writer.
We compare poetry and stories all the time. Today, I’m giving up my blog to her. She’s here to share with you her latest work about a man behind a wall. Please do comment, interpret and share your thoughts on this piece. Take it away Debbie!
Hi, my name is Deborah, and I will be finishing my Associate’s degree in Accounting in a small school in Michigan this year, than moving to New York to finish my BS, and possibly continue on to higher education. I love to write poetry and short stories, and once, I had five minutes and wrote a small poem for a Facebook poetry group.
I wasn’t impressed with the end result, but others thought I was insane. I guess one can go into the whole significance of whether it is the audience or the poet who needs to be impressed with a specific piece, but I was hoping to gather opinions on this poem. I love it and I hate it, because while it fills the specific goals I had in mind, I feel as if I have completely missed the essence of what I was trying to say. The problem is that I have a working body, and it looks pretty good, but I am missing the soul of what would make this poem unique. However, there is an option that I am standing to close to it, and am being too hard on myself for this poem, so, I am going to leave it entirely to an unknown audience to judge and rip apart. I can’t promise I will take everyone’s advice, but it would be interesting to have some type of sounding board.
There is a man who stands behind the wall.
Is he mine? Can he hear my call?
If so, he’s still standing behind the wall.
Does he see when I bring home
A friend? Does it matter to him that night
After night after night the friend is different.
More than it matters to me, I’d think
But still, he doesn’t move,
From his place behind the wall.
Does he watch or turn away
Giving me some modesty I don’t deserve.
I don’t know because he’s standing behind the wall.
I rip into their backs with my nails
And pretend I am tearing down the wall
But I don’t want to see him standing there.
A face of silent sorrow, or a mask of hatred
How would my man look on?
As he’s standing behind the wall.
Does he stiffen with each scream?
Faked or unwilling?
Can he hear everything behind my wall?
Who is the man?
What does this poem mean?