Poetry #1
"More," "Configurations," "A Great Man"
I am very sorry to do this, but I will occasionally share my poetry1 on this blog. I know you subscribed for wit and commentary, but I like writing poems, and I am not interested in posting about artificial intelligence every week.
I have often regretted that I write poetry. Some creative pursuits, like painting or guitar, invite the envy of your social circle. Everyone is impressed if you can draw a horse. Poetry, however, mostly encourages friends to ask if you are doing OK, with a reminder to call them if you need to talk. Nobody is excited to hear you rhyme.
Poetry is just words, and it’s never clear what makes some words nicer than others. If I like the way a word fits in my mouth, and if I put several nice-fitting words together so that they express my thoughts and feelings, well, that seems “true” to me. That truthiness is what makes poetry intimate, and awkward.
I write a lot of prose poetry. In fact, I write a prose poem every2 day. Prose poetry has the obvious advantage that it allows the reader to conceal the fact that they are reading a poem. It is the perfect poetic delivery vehicle for an audience trapped in a public space. If you squint, you might even convince yourself you’re reading microfiction. Wouldn’t that be nice?
More (16/360)
Life takes many forms. It began with genesis. Ever since, we’ve had to copulate. I would hate sex if I were a plant. You place a lot of faith in bees. Vertebrates were the first to ask the big questions. What is love? What is beauty? Our ancestors were killed by asteroids on multiple occasions. One of them created Texas. When a politician presents himself before a camera, that too is life. I have seen the fauna in the White House. They are asking different questions. On Wednesdays I go to the gym with a friend. 70% of the energy spent in exercise is lost to heat. Life is not a lossless form. My friend’s name is Carl, he is that forgettable. I have increased my bench press by 5 kilograms in 2 years. I did not evolve to gain muscle. Neither did Carl. Carl catches me when the weight’s too much. We are that familiar. Outside the gym, I trap the heat radiating off my muscles in a down jacket. Geese are not as lossy as people. A Canada goose might migrate up to 5000 kilometers each way. Life is full of these kinds of facts. A democracy might last exactly 250 years. Because winters are mild now, I can open my jacket, just a little. History created me, but it also created him. Both our lives were accidents of well heated water.
Configurations (18/360)
The story I’m telling is one of patience and fortitude. The story features nine principal characters. One of the characters is a small boy with brown hair who is metaphorically linked with a piebald colt for the first seven chapters, but by the middle of the book has lost himself entirely, and the horse is dead. All the characters live on a large estate. After a character leaves the estate, I can no longer include them in the story. When the boy left he was lost for a long time. But he returned as a handsome man with a chestnut goatee and a toothy smile. He wore yellow socks as he trod up the lawn—if you read carefully, you would notice the allusion to a horse’s fetlocks. Above the fireplace hung a painting of his great-grandfather. One of several dogs lifted his head. The fireplace is purely ornamental. The estate is covered in palm trees and agave. Of the eight other characters, three are on the property when he arrives. One is habitually drunk. Two are not yet introduced. Nominally the story is about family, but critics differ as to the deeper meaning. The ninth character is an adolescent when the story ends. She has not yet left the estate, but we understand her departure will conclude the story. With a valise in hand, she glances at a painting of her grandfather, whom she surmises was horselike. Many great stories reflect on the rise and fall of a household through subsequent generations. The granddaughter will have only read enough to know a house can fall. Outside the estate the world is ill-defined. So many details are still missing. When I close my eyes, I see slabs of limestone settle onto peat. The story opens with a large garden party, on a vast terrace, the conversation full of veiled hints as to character and plot.
A Great Man (12/360)
If I were a genius, then every poem I wrote would be great, even this one, because my life would always be full of intellect and beauty. If tired, I would articulate my fatigue with great license, and teachers would recount to children the efforts I made to lift a single apricot to my lips, as my fingers dawdled on tarnished silverware. My poems would have no resemblance to lists, slave to the plodding logic of clauses, but resemble a flower unfurled in late spring, or a secret whispered into a cupboard. I would question myself, yes, but not really. My whims would be the extension of a profound order, always present and misunderstood. If I were a genius, you would stand on my shoulders, surveying a land that I had first charted. I would do nothing in parts. My every action would be the full expression of the Weltgeist, as it existed beyond me and through me. There would be no crowds, but only attitudes, each open to my interpretation. If I were already listening, a poem might tell itself to me. The invitation is always available. The self that I would have might have been but never was would, occasionally, come to mind. I would reflect with deep fear at the thought of him (me), then twirl my phone through my fingers, puzzling how to write him down into words. If the genius I could have been only knew how much I would have admired him! I would put it down into words, too, if I could.
I expect to do this every 4 - 6 weeks, though I may alternate between poetry and fiction.
Almost.