Dear Mr.
Chesterfield, I guess it’s lucky I have no wife
None closer to
me than the box in my coat pocket
None to linger
on with me in agony and strife
No picture in
some special locket
It’s unfortunate
that my life was not the price of resolution
I pay fifteen
cents to stay sane
Instead of
dying like my comrades for our constitution
No, I’m still
here every day mundane
Though the
wind howls like a vile banshee in the night
Still I stand
at the grim train station
That’s when
the woman walked up to me asking for a light
Unfortunately she
started the conversation
I don’t get
stuck on every woman I meet and talk to
But she could
not be compared to a summer’s day
A beautiful
presence that demanded attention
But she was
Maya and therefore not to stay
She was an
illusion, everything she said a lie
I have no
future further then picking up Mr. Chester everyday
I could never
provide a decent life, I was not her guy
And yet I
concentrated on everything she’d say
It’s just like
me to see a pretty woman
Talk to her
about art and imagine us middle aisle
But obviously
she was too swanky
I was most certainly
in denial.
But that was
the case all too revolting to view
Her beauty was
false, just there to torment me
Like long ago
when I used to sit in a pew
There false
women came, two or three
Every time she
smiled at something I said
The wives of
Thomas, Jim, and Fred
I saw their
faces, and my stomach rips
The ones they
lived for died for them
This woman
represents that sorrow
She said she
was going north
Things here
today and gone tomorrow
As she spoke
she swayed back and forth
Yes Mr.
Chesterfield you are all I need
I failed and
didn’t die when I should
It’s better
that I didn’t pass on my seed
My friends
died in front of me and there I stood
Shadows creep
over the roof as the train slowly passes
The woman
thanked me and went aboard
I nodded and
adjusted my glasses.
Promptly after
the train left the rain poured
So cruel, so
unyielding, and almost with disdain
For those with
no home, no roof, no comfort
But one little
box keeps my thoughts plain
When lies all
around me the truth contort
I’m glad she’s
gone, away from my filth
Shakti is here
restoring my faith
The soil of my
mind has none to tilth
The smoke
dances like gypsies
I exhale and
sigh long
That’s when he
asked me for the time
His voice
interrupted my trace like a gong
I told him
then he ask me for a dime
If he had
caught me before I met Mr. Chesterfield
I probably
would have fifteen cents to spare
But this was
not a time to give what would not yield
Regardless I
was not in no mood to share
And since I am
not I would much rather be dead
He beat his
gums about “important” business
I was more than
sick of the sludge that he fed
Important men
who do important things are atrocious
They think
they are everything but are something less than nothing
Always talking
and trying to sound precocious
Making
ambitious plans while the ground they keep stuffing
The bodies are
stacked high until they’re six feet under
As he spoke I
relished the idea of a warm coffin
I’d be warm
nowhere near this thunder
Zeus’ bolts
ripped the sky like white jagged stripes
It reminded me
of a sound I was all too familiar with
Planes I flew with
bombs attached, all types
Dropped death
from above, I wish it was pure myth
But legend
they will say it was
A noble cause
to fight and die for your country
They did it
for honor, for pride because
Of that and
this, but most didn’t live to twenty.
The man could
see I was not interested in engaging
He walked off
to the other end of the station probably saw
My temper was
building, temperature raging
He soon
spotted someone else and their ear he would gnaw
It’s fine that
he leaves like all the others
Solitude is a lovely
jacket that Mr. Chester and I share
Anything I can
do to relieve myself of my fallen brothers
I still see
them every time I close my eyes if I dare
The train
engine roars as it speeds down the track
I slowly walk
forward to the edge of the pier
One false step
and there would be no coming back
I snicker and
inhale deep looking down at my expiry that sweet dear
My fear
extinguishing out of my body like the smoke from my mouth
The train was
coming up fast, people were starting to realize
How ironic
that this would be the end of how everything went south
Instead of
dying where I expected, this is how my death would be directed
It happened in
seconds and I felt nothing
My body went
stiff as the train blurred by at full speed
Mere Inches in
front of my face, my heart thumping
It was not my
fate, not ordained creed
If I died it
wouldn’t be today
There was one
more thing keeping me connected
Something that
made me stay
Even when I am
rejected
Mr.
Chesterfield is my closest ally
Near to my
heart and keeping me sane
So again I
puff and sigh
For now I
remain
Background Information:
The
first thing I did when I set out to rewrite this poem was to get a sense of
what the original poem is about. So I went over the lesson that analyzes
Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind. I
realized what a major role Wind played to the speaker it was so important that
it was worthy of a poem being written about it. Then I thought of how someone in
the modernist era might have an inanimate object play such an important role.
This is where I got the idea of “Mr. Chesterfield” Chesterfield was a cigarette
brand in the years after WWI in the early 1920s. Like the speaker from Ode to the West Wind, something that
cannot speak is personified as if it is a person that can speak. The character
of the story is addicted to cigarettes and has become loyal to his favorite
brand that he buys every day. Instead of romancing his relationship with “Mr.
Chester” I decided to depict a scene in which the speaker is attempting to kill
himself. The speaker is cynical about many things and disappointed with society.
Some areas of the poem point out that he fought in the war, he feels guilty
that he did not die in the war and has internal thoughts and struggles that
torment him.
He
is alone and alienated although two people come to speak with him to pass the
time, which reflects the modern world he lives in, even with people around him
he is still alone. Also I employed references to diverse
cultures, belief systems, and histories by the speaker making reference to the
Hindu goddesses Maya (means illusion) and Shakti (who slays demons and restores
peace), and of course Zeus from Greek mythology who
is the god who shoots lighting. The language is
experiment and none traditional. Most of the poem fits the rhyme scheme of the
original but doesn’t fit a specific structure and goes back and forth from the
speaker relating the events to his personal thoughts.
