9 to 5 Poet

I’m reading Matthea Harvey’s Modern Life, in preparation for our Poetry Book Club discussion at the end of the month. So far, I am enjoying her slightly surreal take on the world.

One of the aspects of her book that intrigues me is her use of abecedarian (alphabetical) poems. Her series of poems, “The Future of Terror,” use alphabetical lists of words embedded in the text to flesh out the descriptions. Most of the poems go from the letter “g” to the letter “s” or “t”. It’s a brilliant technique, because she stretches towards a unique vocabulary. In the poem I linked here, we get everything from garden gnomes to napoleons.

When I think of alphabet poems, I always think of the more formal style. Christina Rossetti’s “An Alphabet”, is emblematic of that style. Intended for children, it contains still hidden philosophical gems like, “I am I—who will say I am not I?” The beauty of the abecedarian poem is the way it forces the poet to fill in words, and surprise ourselves in the process.

Similar to my surprise and joy at Natasha Trethewey’s mirror image poem, Myth, this new take on the alphabetical poem may inspire to write some actual poetry yet.

I hope you’re enjoying Modern Life as much as I am!

In Natasha Trethewey’s book Native Guard, she includes the amazing poem Myth. In this poem, she creates a mirror image where the first line becomes the last line, the second line becomes the second to last line. The poem almost folds in on itself and it can be read backwards and forwards.

During the discussion for book club, Sasha asked if anyone was going to try the form. I didn’t think I could do it, but lo and behold, this poem came out. It ain’t perfect, but I’m pretty darn proud of it, due to the dexterity of the form.

If anyone knows the name of this form, please tell me. I couldn’t find it anywhere!

Alice at 40

“It’s a poor sort of memory that works only backwards.” The Queen, Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll

Her little life turned out
just as she had planned:
a pretty package, complete with tidy bow.

Her face remained, mirror smooth and calm,
while beneath the surface, reflections raged
every passing moment.

She found it impossible to put them into words,
so letters tumbled out, a muddy soup of sound.
She tried to swallow it whole again, which never works.

* * *

She tried to swallow it whole again, which never works,
so letters tumbled out, a muddy soup of sound.
She found it impossible to put them into words

every passing moment.
Whle beneath the surface, reflections raged,
her face remained, mirror smooth and calm,

a pretty package, complete with tidy bow.
Just as she had planned,
her little life turned out.

I was having a bit of difficulty with this week’s Poetry Thursday
prompt of “rivers.” Even though we passed many rivers in Iowa this weekend, I just didn’t feel a connection to the image. Then, this morning on my walk in my neighborhood, I watched the freeway full of commuters and realized that there are many different types of rivers.

Freeway Overpass

I cross the one-way
river, crowded with cars, stalled
as I am today.

Midnight Walk in May

I sense spring in hints
of blooming lilac and faint
lightning behind clouds.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a haiku. I was afraid that I was only inspired by the wintry landscapes. Being a transplanted Minnesotan, that makes sense. However, I was able to knock one out this weekend, so I must have just been dormant.

Two Old Men’s Bedroom

Patch of green beneath
a concrete overpass sky. Still,
narrow light seeps through.

It’s pretty easy to write an article about villanelles. I’ve got that covered. Writing a villanelle, on the other hand, is something totally different. I hadn’t tried villanelles in over a year, so this was good practice. And I got to remember why I like form so much.

When writing this, I knew I wanted to break the form a bit. So, my refrains are a bit malleable. I wanted to retain some of the main words, but have them echo throughout the poem, rather than repeat word for word. Also, I pushed the form a bit with my rhymes. Some of them are slant/off. The rule I was most stringent about was the iambic pentameter, until I got to the final stanza.

A good warm up for writing this was the fact that I taught both “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” and “One Art” in my Literature class on Tuesday. It helped me get the feeling of the form that day, for when I wrote this.

Model, Captured for Hours, Whispers

Contort your body. Careful to comply,
I twist my torso, hollow out my chest,
then gaze at my reflection, in reply.

I cannot see my surface, how it shines
so bright that you can see yourself expressed
in my contorted back, but I comply.

I feel as if I’m made of smoke and light,
strategically placed mirrors; nothing’s left
just gazed upon reflections, mute replies.

But in the scrim of images, stretched tight
across my skin, I see ourselves, a mess:
distorted limbs, regrets. We all comply

to orders easily. We push, deny
ourselves of everything. This is our test.
We reproduce reflections, in reply.

We are stripped bare, compressed down to a size
where there is nothing wasted, nothing left.
Contort your body, silently comply
to the refracted image – wait for the reply.