Home
I wandered lonely, not so much a cloud
As more a type of fog, as something cool
And indistinct, ephemeral, endowed
With little of that which an older school
Would call of moment: willful, silly, proud.
But things then shift somehow, by sudden grace
Or simply desperation. Old things fall
Away and much is new. And yet you face
A kind of vagrancy and can’t recall
What it was like to have a sense of place.
Though now I find that sense has finally passed.
I’m finally home (or so I call it, so
It somehow seems to be) and it is vast:
Not cozy, not some blushing bungalow,
Instead each room’s more ample than the last.
Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Agape Review, America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.
Thank you, Jeffrey, for this touching personal reflection. I feel your rhymes work well in punctuating, but not interrupting, the flow of the poem, which has a relaxed conversational tone free from all complacency. Best wishes, Bruce
Enjoyed this poem beginning with the humorous twist of
the first two lines leading to the serious hopefulness of the last.
Jeffrey, I feel your sense of finally being settled. In the military I moved an average of once year. I even often moved in civilian life. This is the longest I have remained in one place, and I suppose I have a sense of belonging, although there are places I would rather be. I like the Wordsworth thought to begin the poem and the special rhyme scheme.
I think this is a satisfying and reassuring piece, which subtly records a transition from aimlessness and homelessness to purpose and security. Inevitably the final line suggests “In my Father’s house are many mansions”. Well written, Jeffrey. (And by the way, I live in a blushing bungalow…..)
The interweaving of the A and B rhymes in each quintain is very neatly done.
This poem crosses a line. The line between simplicity and sheer audacity. Let the good times roll.
Aimless fading turns toward journey directed by the powers of the soul. Home looks like Matteo Ricci’s memory palace, where the builder always recalls the orderly placement of his treasured goods.
The prodigal son returns (or puts down roots). I’ve been here in West Africa long enough for it to feel like home, as does my ground floor ‘bungalow’.
An affirming poem, Jeffrey.