The conditions under which a poem comes to life often remain foggy to the poet, who may remember nothing at all of its genesis. One might not require a Person from Porlock to find it all a bit of a muddle. Yet I recall quite vividly how my poem “Lodge,” a meager Gothic ghost-story, arrived in the world—scribbled out at speed in orange (or was it green?) crayon on a cocktail menu (at ever-odder angles in the margins), in a brief moment that allowed me the consolations of a martini and a rare moment alone to write. It was my first martini in some time, and my first poem in many months at the time. I had lately re-traced the steps of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and when I found myself afloat on an icy tide of Gordon’s, “Lodge” simply came to me, as they say, all at once. Now, several years later, it has found its way into a most unlikely venue, The North American Anglican (with many thanks to the poetry editor there).
We’re iced-in, this April dawn. The misted window
Hides the mountain. We’ve joined the ghosts who strain
To live with us inside these rooms—
They sail above the long mahogany floors, know
Stories no more than air, harboring loves slain
By time, who dined and sang, postponed their dooms.
You may read the full poem if you like by clicking here.