I wrote this poem as part of my senior thesis, shortly after reading Young Goodman Brown by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
It was an exploration of Puritanism as it manifests itself in modern life… which was on my brain because of a course I was taking: American Literature to 1865. The instructor mentioned in one lecture about the perennial legacy of Puritanism (and, on the other extreme, hedonism) in American life.
Striking a match,
he lit up,
then gave a light to Steve and Dan.
Between puffs, Steve turned on the stereo.
The only lamp was in the corner,
but still I could see the smoke,
rising between my face and theirs.
They drew regularly,
even Dan —
on the couch,
with his toes gripping the edge
of the coffee table.
I emptied my glass of water
and excused myself to get another,
while the music pounded the glories of rebellion,
chaos, libido, anger —
Steve, on the floor,
relaxed as ever, leaned back against the wall,
crossed his legs,
and bowed his head slightly to draw.
They talked about the music,
I couldn’t hear too well —
I wasn’t really listening.
I was watching the faces,
with lips drawn to cigarettes;
faces for the first time grey in my mind
and the smoke has left them grey —
What childishness to see them any other way…
why should they be less grey than I?
An inner voice cries:
Goodman Brown, go home.
Go home, young Goodman Brown.
of your puritan mind.
Those grey faces
drawing on their cigarettes and smiling —
I know them as my own.
And I love them still
I love them sorely
and perhaps that is
the only way to love them truly.