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Revision posted. John and Matt, thanks for such vivid thoughts on how I might pull this out of the usual jargon used to depict self-doubt, paranoia, conspiratorial thoughts. I found it easy to revise because of your fantastic insights.
It is a dramatization more than a recounting of any real experience. I am fortunate in that way. But I’ve been close enough to its pain to know what it can do. It is essentially a poem about self-doubt, which I do wrestle with often. But to your point, Matt, I’ve extended it here a bit because I also had in mind today’s American social/political milieu it’s hard to escape the gaslighting, conspiratorial thinking, vindictiveness and polarizing hatred that is rampant over the country.
(I admit I do have a high threshold for cliches. They’re like candy: they can be very satisfying, but usually lead to a crash. They also act as a red flag for the discerning crowd that is the Eratosphere : ))
A few notes: the image of a poltergeist has nostalgic meaning to me. My creative writing professor in college invited me to his home for a 1:1 evaluation of my semester's work and he ended the session by reciting a poem of his. (He had never read his own work to the class so I was taken off guard by the gesture.) The title of the poem was Poltergeists and I remember the first line being, “There are poltergeists in my head” and that image has always stuck with me for some reason. I remember he recited it by heart. He followed it up by saying something like “We all have them, James. Some of them are useful. Use them well.” or something to that effect. Two things: 1.) He was the only person to call me James (other than the nuns), and 2.) he told me I was a poet.
That was a long time ago. Recently (well, five or so years ago) I memorialized him at a Black Box theatre play here in Boston. Once the audience was seated an announcement was made on the PA that asked those in attendance (there were maybe seventy-five people) to look under their seats for a pencil and paper and write down the name of someone who has had a positive influence in our creative lives and then pass it to the end of the row where a stage person would come by to collect them in a basket. The play was entitled,
The Method Gun. It was a story about what actors go through to hone their art. Specifically, it depicted an unconventional acting technique called the “method gun” approach and the performance was a depiction of exactly how the technique was taught.
At the end of the performance an actor took center stage and quelled the applause, asking for silence as a screen illuminated the back wall of the stage. There on the screen was a slow scroll of all the names that had been written down prior to the show beginning. You could hear a pin drop. When my teacher’s name appeared at the top and slowly scrolled down and out of view something intensely personal and meaningful occurred that reverberates in me even now.
Here's a link to the Method Gun.
So I guess I should dedicate this poem to him.