The Ogre Of Peach Alley

He'd lived in the remaining house on the little byway,
The place and its existence somewhat accidental
As it was built as the groundskeeper's cottage
Accompanying a rambling edifice
Built by a former president of the mill,
That once-grand structure gone to rack and ruin
Nothing remaining save the odd bit of foundation
Poking forlornly above crownvetch and milkweed,
Though the lot of the man we'd dubbed the ogre
(The notion that he had an actual name
Not occurring to us at the time,
Though, as Nicky Demmer wisely noted
Whatever it might be, it must be unspoken.)
Was only slightly less unkempt and foreboding,
And it is hard to remember what exactly made him
Something to be feared and avoided at all costs,
Perhaps the combination of height
(Though lessened yet somehow accentuated
By a slight yet perceptible stoop)
And a widow's peak at the top of an unusually high forehead
Bookended by wiry and unruly locks,
Perhaps the fact that he rarely appeared in the daylight,
And then squinting as he turned his head to the sky
In the manner of one who fully expected
That it would fall, Chicken-Little style
But in any case his lawn
Was strictly no-man's land,
And any wiffle ball or frisbee,
Regardless of how new it may be
Or the retribution attached to coming home without it,
Remained behind, mourned but forsaken
And at some point we moved beyond our unease,
Too old for such superstition,
Moving on to other totems, other portents
Though some years later I happened upon his obituary,
Laying out the signposts of an ordinary
Though vaguely underwhelming and melancholy life:
He'd worked on the third shift at the mill all his days,
Thus precluding much of the social commerce
With his fellow man, no Rotary or Odd Fellows rites
To be performed at his service
(Of which there was none, burial being private as well)
And the list of survivors was limited to one daughter
Wholly unknown to us, ostensibly taken elsewhere
By an unmentioned and unmourning mother.
The item, brief and unadorned as it was,
Brought me back to that fretful nine-year-old self,
Though imbued with a greater disquiet,
As I had a deeper knowledge of the finality
Of cold, agate type, among several other things.

Reviews

[CD Campbell]

Our character in the above written poem reminds me of a couple lonely men who have passed sometime ago in my hometown. Of course these men stood out due to the fact that the town was alot smaller then. Now everyone is lonely and dying alone. Nothing to see here. That is sad. I found the language to this work of yours to be simple to follow, but erudite in intention. It was much enjoyed.

As far as the review below. I have an answer for him. Philip Levine. "The Simple Truth" Pulitzer prize in poetry, 1995.

[Casey Truax]

It is a well told story and quite relatable; we look back on the foolishness of our childhood, our neighborhood pariahs. Your voice is enjoyable, mournful and loquacious but not too much.

[W.k.kortas]

I may now go with "loquacious but not too much" as my epitaph. Many thanks, sir.

[JayG]

What makes this a poem? Breaking an essay into short lines with no attention to prosody, and no poetic language, doesn't change what it is. It's an essay.

In it, you, the narrator, are talking TO the reader in a voice whose emotion only you can hear. The reader has only punctuation telling them how to read it. Have your computer read it to you, to hear how different what the reader gets is from what you hear when you read.

There's a lot to poetry (and fiction, too, for that matter) that's not obvious, but which must be taken into account when writing. So a bit of digging into the techniques the pros take for granted would make a lot of sense...and a big difference.

[W.k.kortas]

It's a poem, to be frank, because I have presented it as such, and I fail to see where you have either the writing or the academic chops to say otherwise.

[JayG]

• I fail to see where you have either the writing or the academic chops to say otherwise.

Goodness, I seem to have touched a nerve. You didn't comment on what I said, just my right to say it. But given that my poor attempts at poetry, here, generate multiple pages of comments, that I've been offered and signed seven publishing contracts, have taught writing at workshops, owned a manuscript critiquing company, and currently have 30 novels available on Amazon...

• It's a poem, to be frank, because I have presented it as such,

Naa...you labeled it as a poem, true. But...

1. There are no stanzas.
2. There is no poetic structure.
3. There is no poetic language.
4. The methodology is 100% fact-based and author-centric, a nonfiction technique, and, it reads like a report.

Below is this "poem" in its original form. That's 228 words to say, "When I was a kid, there was a guy that never let us on his lawn to retrieve a ball."

Since you present yourself as far more qualified to define poetry, I'd appreciate learning why you feel that breaking an essay like the one below magically transforms it into a poem.
- - - - - - - -
Bookended by wiry and unruly locks, perhaps the fact that he rarely appeared in the daylight, and then squinting as he turned his head to the sky in the manner of one who fully expected that it would fall, Chicken-Little style.

But in any case his lawn was strictly no-man's land, and any wiffle ball or frisbee, Regardless of how new it may be or the retribution attached to coming home without it, remained behind, mourned but forsaken.

And at some point we moved beyond our unease, too old for such superstition, moving on to other totems, other portents.

Though some years later I happened upon his obituary, laying out the signposts of an ordinary though vaguely underwhelming and melancholy life:

He'd worked on the third shift at the mill all his days, thus precluding much of the social commerce with his fellow man, no Rotary or Odd Fellows rites to be performed at his service (Of which there was none, burial being private as well).

And the list of survivors was limited to one daughter wholly unknown to us, ostensibly taken elsewhere by an unmentioned and unmourning mother.

The item, brief and unadorned as it was, brought me back to that fretful nine-year-old self, though imbued with a greater disquiet, as I had a deeper knowledge of the finality of cold, agate type, among several other things.

[W.k.kortas]

You're clearly the most learned and perceptive critic to ever frequent this site. Peace to you.