The Grinch...OR The Little Black Heart of the Telephone

I recently expressed to a friend (about an hour ago, if we were to get technical) that I, by the definition Mr. Albert Einstein established, might be insane and should, perhaps, be committed.  To which he replied, "you don't need to be committed, you need to be loved."  Everyone needs to hear such things from time to time (saccharine though they are).  My reply, not dealing well with the saccharine, was a quote from the Grinch (or so I thought): "I think my little heart just grew three sizes." Apparently, however, it reminded him of the following poem.

(Full disclaimer, I am not a fan of poetry - though not quite metrophobic - and my penchant for the written word is less focused on modern writing than say, the days of Mr. Hemingway, or Mr. Eliot even....however, I felt it worthwhile to contribute something that might be of interest to, well, someone else...for a change ;) Enjoy.)

The Little Black Heart of the Telephone

That telephone keeps screaming its little black heart out:

Nobody there? Oh, nobody's there!—and the blank room bleeds

For the poor little black bleeding heart of the telephone.

I, too, have suffered. I know how it feels

When you scream and scream and nobody's there.

I am feeling that way this goddam minute,

If for no particular reason.

Tell the goddam thing to shut up! Only

It's not ringing now at all, but I

Can scrutinize and tell that it's thinking about

Ringing, and just any minute, I know.

So, you demand, the room's not empty, you're there?

Yes, I'm here, but it might start screaming just after

I've gone out the door, in my private silence.

Or if I stayed here I mightn't answer, might pretend

Not to be here at all, or just be part of the blankness

The room is, as the blankness

Bleeds for the little bleeding black heart

Of the telephone. If, in fact, it should scream,

My heart would bleed too, for I know how pain can't find words.

Or sometimes is afraid to find them.

I tell you because I know you will understand.

I know you have screamed: Nobody's there? Oh, nobody's there!

You've looked up at stars lost in blankness that bleeds

Its metaphysical blood, but not for redemption.

Have you ever stopped by the roadside at night, and couldn't

Remember your name, and breath

Came short? Or at night waked up with a telephone screaming,

And covered your head, afraid to answer?

Anyway, in broad daylight, I'm now in the street,

And no telephone anywhere near, or even

Thinking about me. But tonight, back in bed, I may dream

Of a telephone screaming its little black heart out,

In an empty room, toward sunset,

While a year-old newspaper, yellowing, lies on the floor, and velvety

Dust thick over everything, especially

On the black telephone, on which no thumbprint has,

For a long time now, been visible.

In my dream I wonder why, long since, it's not been disconnected.

(from Robert Penn Warren's Now and Then: Poems 1976-1978)