Someone asked me a question on Twitter as to the back story of a poem I had written. It didn’t have a back story but it got me thinking about back stories.
It may have been the mist.
Descending around him,
As the fire pit
Turned to embers
And the last of his guests said goodbye,
That made him talk.
It may have been the wine.
His mouth gaped,
Smothering a yawn,
Smoothly into non-existence.
Before he could signal for those around
To listen close.
They came and sat,
From miles around
Eager to hear their past
Told to them as a fictional narrative
Remembered in dreams
By a near snoozing drunk.
Launching into debauch
And times shared with kin
And friend alike,
He began to silently weep.
Dying embers preserving his dignity
Strength of a unwavering voice
Giving nothing away.
The sitting, squatting, standing crowd,
Being waxed lyrically, mercilessly,
By the king of the comfortable garden furniture,
“Talk to me of love”, a man shrieked.
“Talk to me of adventures and daring”, cried a little one.
“Talk to me of you”, a murmuring squatting pale faced girl asked.
“That I can do” he said, shuffling in his seat.
But one by one the faces faded,
Distance growing painfully reminding.
“I wish I could stay” said the pale faced squatter.
…”so do I” he responded.
As the last face vanished from sight
For chances been and gone
To live and love and
Gather his own stories.
“But I know they don’t exist.”
This is the poem I was asked about the back story of.