August 23: A poem about despair, drugs and the demons that come along with them
Sober Translation: Poetry. This is one I wrote. I figured you have just as hard a time understanding poetry as I do, so I'll go through and offer my commentary on this particular one. It isn't even good, though. I highly suggest not reading it.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered, weak and weary,
Through the soggy streets of prodding feet passed by not long before—
While I staggered, sore and shambling, suddenly there came a rambling
From a place reserved for gambling, gambling wealth away for sure—
"Oh, some young people" I muttered, "gambling wealth away for sure—
Only this and nothing more."
Sober translation: I was walking in the city one rainy night, alone, I was tired, as I am all the time, and I heard a loud noise coming from a casino. They don't call this place "sin city" for nothing. One can easily lose their way. I know I have one too many times.
Ah, distinctly I recall it being in the muggy August,
And each blust'ry blowing wind gust sounding like an old ghost's roar—
I was waiting for the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
Some drug's spell to drown the sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant woman I, her lover, called Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
Sober translation: This all happened in August, my least favorite month, and it was windy. I was trying to forget her. I was high, since I started doing drugs again when she left me. I write poetry when I'm high. I try understanding it when I'm sober. Which is why we are here.
And the blinding, bad, dynamite blinking of each slot and bright light
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic notions never thought before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Oh, some young people entreating me to come and win some score—
Just some young people entreating me to come and win some score;—
This it is and nothing more."
Sober translation: Looking at the slot machines and lights in my haze, I felt urged to gamble as well—something I hadn't done since she was mine. I tried to find a reason why I should go into the casino, and ended up with the delusion that people wanted me to spend time with them. It was the drugs that did it.
And so then my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Men," I said, "and ladies, I can spend this night with you, and more;
See, I am an ace at poker, I can beat any old joker,
I'll leave all of you more broker," —here I opened wide the door,
And all of the slots and lights went dark as I opened the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Sober translation: I became brave and started walking into the casino, boasting about how good I am at poker (i'm not good at poker) when all of the light in the casino shut off and I was left staring in the dark. This didn't actually happen. It's the drugs doing their work. Just the drugs and nothing more, as I would say on my high. It was just a hallucination.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams I never ever dared to dream before;
But the silence went unbroken, and the stillness went unbroken,
And the whole world went unbroken, save for the whispered "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo whispered back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Sober translation: In the dark, I came up with the thought that she could be behind this blackout, that she was trying to get back at me for what I did, so I whispered her name in fear. It was whispered back. But, of course, this was a drug-induced hallucination and nothing more. Nothing supernatural, nothing that holds any particular meaning, no bad omen for sure. I think.
Back into the lit street turning, all my soul within me burning,
Churning, soon I heard a rambling somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is some kind of spirit—no, that is
Crazy! A normal thing, that is! I shall this myst'ry explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
It's normal and nothing more!"
Sober translation: I turned back into the lights on the street when I heard a noise louder than the one from the casino. At first I thought it was her again, but then I remember it could be a normal sound, or the drugs acting up—which I would double check to make sure of.
So I ran through streets and alleys, when, like someone from the valleys,
Into my path stepped a ragged Man from ragged days of yore;
Babbling some nonsense song was he; not one single pardon made he;
But, like a real lord or lady, sat down on the dirty floor—
Sat down on some plastic bags spread out upon the dirty floor—
On his face wrote "Nevermore."
Sober translation: I was running through the city searching for the sound of the rambling when I found it: in the form of an old homeless Man babbling nonsense I managed to hear in my stoned state. He immediately sat down in front of me, right in the trash of the alley. The word "nevermore" was tattooed on his face. What a heathen.
Then this homeless Man beguiling my sad feeling into smiling,
By the odd and crazed decorum of the countenance he wore,
"Been a while since you've been shaven, eh?" I said. "The filth's your haven,
Eating filth like a damned Raven wandering from the hellish shore—
Tell me what your "lordly" name is on the Devil's hellish shore!"
Quoth the old Man "Nevermore."
Sober translation: Seeing this crazy guy sitting on the ground like a king made me laugh, despite my pain at losing her. The drugs were really catching up to me, so I decided to belittle him and ask for his name. No words came out of his mouth in response, but the tattoo on his face seemed to be talking to me, telling me his name was "nevermore." I promise you, this is all just because of the drugs. I am sane. I am sane.
Wow! I marvelled. This ungainly Man can hear discourse so plainly!
Though his word held little meaning and no relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing—meeting Man on alley floor—
Man or beast upon the plastic bags set down on alley floor,
With a name like "Nevermore!"
Sober translation: I was shocked that someone like him could understand speech and respond to me, even through the form of tattoos. But, of course, his name was nonsense! Never before was a homeless old Man on the dirty floor of an alley named "nevermore!" It's so ridiculous it's funny! And not horribly sad in every possible way! Right?
But the old Man, sitting lonely on the plastic bags, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther did he utter—not one more word did he mutter—
Till I called the strength to stutter "Other friends left me before—
Come the hour you will leave me, as Lenore left me before."
Then the Man said "Nevermore."
Sober translation: Depression sinks back in, because the Man's tattoos went quiet immediately afterward, as if "nevermore" was the only word they could say and the one word that said everything that needed to be said. That's when I remarked that soon enough, he would go away, just like everyone else left me before. Just like she left me. But then, his tattoos said "nevermore" again in response. Allow me to remind you that I was high as balls during this exchange.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so simply spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what he says is all that's in his mental store
Learned from some high school poetry—learned from Poe and bad poems he
Read and took to heart so that he let his face that sad word bore—
Till the mere dregs of his Hope that melancholy sad word bore
Of that 'Never—nevermore.'"
Sober translation: Shocked at that same depressing word again radiating from his tattoos, I reasoned that "nevermore" must be the only word the Man knows, learned from bad poetry and Edgar Allen Poe, and that, at some point in his life, his hopes were so low he decided to have the word tattooed on his face. I was probably reading way too into this, but what can I say? It was a surreal experience. Those drugs were really surreal.
But the old Man still beguiling my sad feeling into smiling,
Straight I sat with him upon a cardboard box on alley floor;
Then, upon the garbage sinking, I resolved myself to linking
Story unto story, thinking what this om'nous Man—señor—
What this poss'bly Spanish speaking, gaunt, and om'nous Man—señor
Meant in saying "Nevermore."
Sober translation: This Man seemed pretty strange, so I sat down beside him and thought about all the possible reasons he could've had to say the strange word—including the fact that possibly he spoke Spanish and "nevermore" was the only English word he knew. Therefore, if he spoke Spanish, I needed to address him as señor. I am sane. I am sane. I promise you, I was sane, just really, really high. Okay? Glad we cleared that up. Moving on...
Wait, why are you reading this poem anyway? I was stoned writing this, thinking I was a poet just because she left me and I started talking to the personification of a raven. Why do you care? Go away. I assure you, I'm doing much better now. I'm sober. I'm over it. You can stop reading my bad poetry now. No, I'm not in denial. I'm actually doing great! See, look! I can even smile :)
Fine. If you want more proof that I'm doing just fine, you can read on.
So I sat engaged in guessing, but no single word expressing
To the Man whose fiery eyes now burned into my soul's cold core;
This and more I sat divining, while my bastard heart set pining
Over my blue hoodie's lining that the street-lights gloated o'er,
But whose cozy, comfy lining that the street-lights gloated o'er,
She shall wear, ah, nevermore!
Sober translation: So I was considering all the possible backstories of the Man I was sitting next to, whose eyes seemed to be burning into my soul, when I started thinking about the blue hoodie I was wearing and how much she used to love wearing it. And how she would never enjoy its cozy lining again because, well, she's gone. And now the hoodie's only wearer is me. Because she's gone. And I'm alone. But now I'm fine. Yay. You can still stop reading whenever you want. Preferably before the next stanza.
Then, I took a pill from pocket, put in on my tongue and popped it
Ecstasy and poison took control as it spread to my core.
"Wretch," I cried, "chase far these poor ills—give in to the chills and the thrills
God has sent you respite and pills—take them and forget Lenore;
Take, oh take these good and kind pills and forget your lost Lenore!"
Quoth the old Man "Nevermore."
Sober translation: Okay, so maybe I took another pill? And maybe I started raving about how God sent me drugs to forget her? And maybe the hobo replied to this with "nevermore," meaning that no matter what I do or what drugs I take, I'll never be able to get rid of the memories? I'll never be able to hold her in my arms again, and if I try, I'll only grab a ghost immaterial! I'm done for!
But that doesn't matter. I'm fine now. But maybe another pill would help...
Or a few...
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if Man or devil!—
Whether Satan sent, or whether a storm tossed you here ashore,
All alone yet all undaunted, in this city I'm unwanted—
In these streets by horrors haunted—tell me please, please, I implore
Is there—is there hope for me yet?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the old Man "Nevermore."
Not-so-sober translation: PERHAPS this horrible, desolate, grim, ghastly, ugly, evil all-seeing old man told me that there's no hope for me in this godforsaken city where no one loves me. PERHAPS this homeless, useless, soulless, prophetic old man was sent by Satan himself to drive me mad with his tattoo of "nevermore, nevermore!" BUT THAT'S FINE! THAT'S TOTALLY FINE! I'M TOTALLY FINE. I don't care. I write my own destiny. Hell, I'm writing right now! One day, I'll have hope again! One day, I'll have her again! Maybe! MAYBE?
Nevermore.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if Man or devil!
By the stars and skies above us—by the God you might adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, before I'm old and jaded
I will hold a lovely maiden whom I once would call Lenore—
Will I love again a maiden whom I used to call Lenore?"
Quoth the old Man "Nevermore."
Not-so-sober translation: THAT'S IT! He just said RIGHT TO MY FACE that she will love me "nevermore!" THAT DAMN WORD! "NEVERMORE!" That stupid man with his stupid talking tattoo swore to whatever God he believes in and said, right to my face, that she'll never love me again! That I'll never hold her again! HE'S LYING! HE HAS TO BE LYING!
but it's true, isn't it? she's isn't coming back, is she?
she hasn't come back yet.
and here i am, getting high and writing poetry.
LOOK AT ME, I'M GETTING HIGH AND GETTING ANGRY OVER POETRY.
"Be that word our sign of parting, Man or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—
"Go on back into hell and tell Satan I think he's a whore!
Leave not one thing as a token of the lie your soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—get up from off of this floor!
Take your sour words with you and get up from off of this floor!"
Quoth the old Man "Nevermore."
Not-so-sober translation: THIS GUY! HE RUINS MY LIFE WITH ONE WORD AND REFUSES TO STOP SAYING IT. DOESN'T LISTEN TO DIRECTIONS. TELLS LIES. SITS IN ALLEYWAYS LIKE THE GHOST OF A GHOST OF A GHOST. DRIVES ME MAD, EVEN WHEN HE'S GONE. SHOOTING DOWN MY HOPES THAT ANYONE WILL EVER LOVE ME AGAIN.
Will anyone ever love me again?
Does she even care about me?
Will I will ever be happy?
Nevermore.
And the old Man, never quitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the plastic bags and piled trash upon the alley floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the streetlight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul is like that shadow, lying, floating on the floor
It will be lifted?
Nevermore.
Nevermore.
Nevermore.