Here I sit, wordless,
I let my feelings float along with the music:
Oud & guitar.
Outside, on the other side of the window,
The rain is spitting onto the cold, forever wet tarmac.
According to the front page of the entertainment section of my weekend paper,
Everyone is smiling.
At work, how I yearn for silence.
To drown the idiocy of small talk, I turn the music up higher,
Thus assuring my head will ache, and no writing will be done.
I did not want it to get to this, but it has.
I tell you there is so much pain inside,
All around, deep under, upside down, back to front,
Any angle you look.
It is intractable, it has gone wild.
Mark Pollins's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Marooned by Mark Pollins )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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