Response to Rober Bogin's Poem "Nineteen", Scribbled into my notebook in 7 minutes

Response to Rober Bogin's Poem "Nineteen", Scribbled into my notebook in 7 minutes
(Poem follows)

I wonder if the poet was depressed or nostalgic while looking back or creating this moment because it certainly depresses me! Perhaps because I am approaching middle age, where romance is supplanted by toddlers, tantrums, and dished; by texts, tweets, and duties. I'm mad at that young man, "Take the Fucking chance, man!" You think love drops into your lap everyday!?

OK - let's talk about poetic choices and style-

He's taking a philosophy class -
So, what is the poet's philosophy (and, geez, did her learn ANYTHING!) on first love, or love at first site? That it is an illusion - was this girl even REAL or just the wish of a boy? She is made up? The mythical 'perfect' woman? So chauvinistic. He doesn't want to ruin this image of her by actually engaging with her as a person or having a REAL relationship- an excuse as old as old men.

It is obvious he was/probably still is - weak.

He is "open-throated" in all areas of his life - walking around agape, amazed that life and women are so beautiful- but not talking part in any of it. Just eat the damn fruit and find out!

This reminds me of the poem by T.S. Elliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Dare I "eat a peach!" Yes, please. They both need more daring. But they are both middle-aged men who have passed by the pleasures of life - now, once they realized what they have forsaken they are awakened by memories and "mermaids" - and they "drown" - in their regrets - and die.



"Nineteen"
-George Bogin (1920 - 1988)

On the first day of Philosophy 148, a small girl walked in,
freckled, solemn, cute, whom I liked right off.

Next time, our eyes met and she smiled a little.
I was already in love.

I always tried to arrive before she did so I could watch her
coming through the doorway, each time lover her more.

She began to look at me, too, hoping for a word, I suppose,
but when our eyes met mine would drop.

Once I heard her ask someone for a pencil.
I passed mine back without turning or speaking.

Spring came and we saw each other on campus
open-throated, wordless, everywhere.

On the last day of exam week I was reading at the far end
of the Philosophy Library. Not a soul there but the librarian.
Dust in the sunbeams. End of college.

The door opened. It was my girl. I looked down.

In all that empty library she came to my side,
to the very next chair. Sweet springtime love.
Lovely last chance first love.

I could have taken her by the hand and walked the whole 60 blocks
to the piers right onto a steamer to France or somewhere,
but I said nothing and after a while got up
and walked out into middle age.