Superman to Superdog
An updated version of a poem I wrote for a poetry class in college in 2009. The name of the class was "The Writing of Poetry".
The title of the poem is "Superman to Superdog". The first version of the poem, that I wrote in college, was snarkier. It was more critical of Superman: his self-imposed isolation, his imperiousness, his morality. Superdog shot subtle digs at Superman throughout the poem, attacking Superman's character, mission, and self-worth.
In revisiting and revising the poem in 2025, my view has changed through 16 years of intervening life. I've met a few people in real life who fit the Superman or Superwoman archetype. They're sentinels of society, you could say. Rather than subtly dig at their mild imperiousness, I welcome them.
Perhaps one reason for the change is that, in the interim, I've met a good few truly evil people. I've seen actual evil, and the moral—through a little overbearing, a little imperious—Superman or Superwoman archetype isn't it.
At the risk of sounding like an 11th-grade English paper, I'll say the poem explores themes of solitude, bravery, morality, alienation, family, duty, love, and time.
Superman to Superdog
He sits above me on a pillar
in The Fortress of Solitude
"Why a Fortress of Solitude," I say,
"when you’re already alone?"
"Solitude is my nature," he says
I’m stretched out below him,
amid the icy peaks.
I claw little furrows into the frost.
"You could fight crime without the Superman costume, you know."
"Many things I can do here, Superdog."
He smooths a wrinkle near his knee. He sighs.
"The Kent disguise allows me to be with the people", he says.
"The people?" I ask.
He looks down at me,
a frown on that stony jaw.
"Lois Lane knows this place", I say.
"Truth, Justice, and the American Way," he says, quietly but firmly.
"She’ll die, you know."
"You could fly her to the Rose Nebula,
but the trip would take a thousand years."
He snaps his eyes straight ahead. He begins:
"My father, Jor-El, sent me to this planet. He gave me a mission...".
He trails off, perfectly still up there.
It’s the speech: the only words from his parents.
He listens to it every night,
from the crystals.