Stephen Cole is a prolific poet, always on my Facebook feed. On Facebook, we appear to like one another, so Stephen Cole is a show I always watch. How many years now? I can’t remember. I want to grasp his greatness, but I can’t. It’s like trying to catch a minnow with my hands in the green and sunlight shadow, and every time I catch one, I think, “wait, this is not his best one.” He has so many good poems—although one gets the feeling Stephen Cole doesn’t care whether or not his poems are good. Only his poet does. His theme seems to be The Revenge of Forgiveness. It is really extraordinary, like a dream, that Stephen Cole exists. Fate as a lullaby. If the world were slightly different, Stephen Cole would be famous. I know him only from Facebook and here is a poem from there:
poem
I think my hands disappeared today
I can’t feel anymore.
I cannot pull back the shades of darkness
And let the night music play.
But what is this city to me.
I did not come from here.
I am the stranger here.
I am a stranger everywhere.
The location is as strange as any.
I am at home here it seems
Because words disappear into the air
As they do anywhere.
Say, Good night to the people.
No one hears.
I do not see you
But don’t let that confuse you
Or make you think I do not care
If we all settle peacefully on despair.
It’s the rule of loneliness,
I am not supposed to be here or there.
Either this emptiness will do
or I will speculate
That some other city lies better
About disappointments
Than people do here.
But I am not sure I want to know where.
This city will do for me now
Because dream for dream
It is as likely to fail here
As it would anywhere.