I'm Mark Rickerby, a 25-time Chicken Soup for the Soul contributing author and co-creator / head writer of a western TV series in development. My posts are usually inspiring, sentimental, humorous, or any combination of the three, with occasional essays about writing/publishing, parenting, travel, and other things that make life worth living. As the title suggests, also look for episodes of God’s (yes, God’s) TV series, Messin’ with Mark, wherein God messes with me for heaven's amusement. It's the only explanation for the bizarre things that happen to me. If they give you a laugh, great. If not, blame God – it’s His show! :)
I found this old poem by accident yesterday, excavated from a tattered, 25-year old notebook, written during my single days. I’m happily-married now with two girls (4 and 7) so though the poem is sad, there was a happy ending to the story. My heart is full every day. I shudder to think where I would be if I had remained that Steppenwolf out there in the cold, circling the campfire.
I was twenty-one years old alone in an all-night diner after another bad date with a woman who couldn’t love me no matter how much I gave or how hard I tried.
Looking back, I know now that I was asking the impossible. We can never be more than we are no matter how badly someone else wants us to be.
There are a billion and one moments that make us who we are. Who could ever sort them out, let alone rearrange them?
She was older than me and had been hurt before She was broken and I could not fix her. She had folded in on herself and I could not unfold her but I wanted her so desperately, I couldn’t stop trying. I saw a paradise that she couldn’t see.
So I kept returning, like a colt to a trough too cracked and beaten to hold water.
After enough nights like that one and a very bad ending; after the storm had cleared and the debris was swept away, I returned to myself and it finally dawned on me how uncomplicated love really is.
We know when someone really cares. We even know if someone can’t love at all. It’s built in. But the heart and mind have never been much for communication and the depth of our loneliness can be measured by how much we make it not matter.
I understand her now. Time has humbled me. The world has destroyed my delusions. I am more mature, safer.
But now, I am afraid that I will never love as hard as that kid who sat alone in an all-night diner tasting a new kind of pain deeper than he’d ever known.
A war has been raging for decades. It’s a war we don’t hear about on the news. Like religion and politics, it isn’t discussed in civilized company. This war is not fought with guns and bombs, it’s fought with pens. It is the horrible, ghastly war between . . . rhymers and non-rhymers. The iambic pentameter crowd versus the free verse crowd. No prisoners are taken and no mercy is shown by either side.
All kidding aside, I like them both, but only if both are ultimately understandable. “Ultimately” meaning after two readings. If the poem is so abstract that only the writer gets it, the writer failed, not the reader.
The free verse army says rhyming poetry is childish and unsophisticated, largely as a result of syrupy poems in Hallmark greeting cards. And let’s face it, they usually are. It’s hard to rhyme well (without sounding like a nursery rhyme) and tell a good story that accesses emotion.
The rhyming crowd argues that it takes as much or more talent to write a meaningful, emotionally impactful poem that also rhymes and has meter, structure and rhythm than it does to write one that has none of that. To them, criticizing rhyming poetry is like saying Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Robert Frost and even Shakespeare (who wrote a heck of a lot of sonnets) were a bunch of nincompoops.
Here’s a good example of a rhyming, emotionally moving poem. The story behind it is almost as good as the poem itself.
A friend of mine found it at the bottom of an old box in his parents’ garage. He asked his dad about it. He said the author was a man named Vernon Watson, who performed in theaters around London in the 1930’s and 40’s. He would sing, dance, tell stories and recite poems. A little bit of everything. The audience would start out laughing and end up crying, or vice-versa. He performed under the name Nosmo King, and thought up that name one night while looking at a “No Smoking” sign in one of the theaters. Here it is. I dare you not to get choked up.
Providence
Have you ever been broke? Just broke to the wide? With what you stand up in and nothing beside? Living on scraps the best part of the week When you can get them, and with nowhere to sleep?
I’ve been like that on a cold winter’s night When the streets were deserted and nothing in sight But a slow-moving bobby whose job is to see That the public’s protected from fellows like me. Who get put inside to answer in court Why they’re wandering around without means of support.
It always strikes me as a queer sort of joke – To pick on a man just because he is broke. Do they think he enjoys wandering around in the rain, Soaked to the skin with a dull, aching pain Through his stomach, forgetting his last decent meal And just praying for the time when he’s too numb to feel. Life isn’t worth much when you get to that state – Of just waiting to die and nowhere to wait.
I remember the time, it’s a long while ago, When I stood on a bridge with the river below. The last food I’d had was two days before And I never expected I’d need anymore. That night was the worst that ever I’d known, With a dirty, wet fog that chilled to the bone. I set my teeth hard and I set down my heel On the rail that my hands were too perished to feel When a sniveling pup came out of the fog And whimpered at me, just a scrap of a dog. Bedraggled and dirty, like me, just a wreck, With a sad, little face on his poor, scraggy neck.
A few seconds more and I would have died But he licked my hand and I just sat down and cried. I wrapped up the poor little chap in my coat And carried him off with a lump in my throat. I took him along to the one place I knew Where they’d give him a bed and a biscuit or two.
They didn’t seem keen on taking him in But the sergeant-in-charge gave a bit of a grin When I told him, “The dog could do with a meal.” He said, “I’ll fix him up, but how do you feel?” It may be perhaps that the sergeant had seen the state I was in, I wasn’t too clean. The hunger and cold that I’d suffered all day Exhausted my limits and I fainted away.
Well, they fed me and slept me gave me two bob. The following day, they found me a job. I’ve worked ever since and I’ve put a bit by. I’m comfortable now and I don’t want to die. I’ve a nice, little house in a quiet, little street With a decent-sized garden that’s always kept neat. I’ve worked there a lot when I’ve had time to spare And I’m so proud of one little corner that’s there, With the pick of my flowers ‘round a little old stone, That stands in a corner, all on its own. It bears an inscription, not very grand. The letters are crooked, but you’ll understand – That I wasn’t too steady, I couldn’t quite see, At the time that I carved it, quite recently.
These are the words I carved on the stone – “Here lies my friend when I was alone. Hopeless and friendless, just lost in a fog, God saved my life with the help of a dog.”
~ Vernon Watson AKA Nosmo King, 1930
The photo of the dog’s tombstone was actually made by a friend of mine as a prop for a filmed version of this poem we made. (I played the homeless man.) The words on the stone are a little different because I wrote it from memory and didn’t have this – – –
A YouTube video uploaded by someone who had one of Vernon’s old 78’s. (For you youngsters, 78’s were vinyl LP’s that pre-dated 33’s and 45’s.) His diction and delivery is very heightened and melodramatic, as was the style of the time. His voice reminds me of Boris Karloff’s quite a bit. Oddly, the version I have also has a few more lines than Nosmo’s recorded version. Enjoy!