I wrote this poem a week and a half ago. It was part of an exercise from Easy Guide to Writing Poetry, which I admit has proven very useful in my quest to learn how to write poetry.
Sweet and Thick
A tumble of red and yellow
silver bodies and limbs
a wide pale blue arc
and shadows golden on the ground.
The air is sweet and thick
My current main project is a novella tentatively titled “Bloom”. It’s about a man who believes he is straight, Ben, falling in love with his gay best friend, David. This is an excerpt. It occurs in the last third of the story, when Ben has begun really wrestle with the question of his sexuality. Is he straight? Is he bisexual? Hell if Ben knows.
There’s sexual content in this, and there might be typos and errors.
The tick-tock of the kitchen clock, a low wind murmuring through the cracked window. But nothing else; the house safely suffused in silence.
This is ridiculous. I’m scuttling around like I’m thirteen again, sneaking off with my sisters’ Victoria’s Secret catalogues to masturbate to. Thirteen year old desperate measures and all.
David won’t be home for awhile.
The bed isn’t the best place, really. The couch is better. But this feels too . . . intimate for sitting out in the living room. So. Laptop at hand, afternoon sunlight falling pale across the bedroom.
I hope I don’t get a million viruses.
Where to even start? Presumably there’s keywords of some kind, but I don’t know. Uhm.
After February’s Post-It Note Poetry, I’ve felt invigorated to keep working on my poetry and learning more about the craft of poetry. To that end I’m trying to write a poem a week. I hope, by the end of the year, I will half enough decent poetry to put together in a small collection and sell as an online e-chapbook.
This week’s poem is about philosophy, or, more precisely, the failure of philosophy to square with reality. I recently went to a reading by a poet who enthusiastically embraced philosophy and literary theory in her work. While I enjoyed talking with her, I left feeling naggingly empty. I realized later that it was because I am a realist: I see and report what I see as a writer. I try to understand reality as I see it. I don’t go after things which are rooted in the world of thought.
So I wrote a poem about it.
My current main project is a novella tentatively titled “Bloom”. It’s about a straight man, Ben, who falls in love with his gay best friend, David. This is a short excerpt from the novella. It occurs in the last third of the novella, when Ben has begun to “come out” about his relationship with David. The fact their relationship has evolved into a romantic (and sexual) one is still not common knowledge to many people in their lives.
There’s some sexual content in this, and there might be typos and errors.
At least it never bores me. Everyone else, including the graduate students (who I spoil rotten) whinge and moan about having to teach it. What was it she said last week?
“Freshman creative writing makes me want to kill myself.”
But I love it. More accurately: I love the students. I love watching the students bounce and slouch and lumber and pirouette into the classroom, burdened with staggeringly heavy, overpacked backpacks, still smelling vaguely of the vegetable stew the dining halls served a few days ago because freshmen and showering are not natural allies. These are not earthly creatures. These are creatures underaware of proper hygiene, scruffy, blinking sleepily at one o’clock in the afternoon. Creatures who write three pages of unbroken prose about cabbage just to see if they can piss me off. And I annoy them right back by putting smiley faces next to my critiques.
All of these run-ons are not appropriate for this story. They add nothing to it. 🙂
Ah, well. They have to learn somewhere. I too was a grubby college freshman. And before my American Lit professor introduced me to Jack Spicer, I was thinking maybe I’d be some kind of piping designer. I was dopey, dull, and doomed to a life without poetry.
How’d that poem go?
People who don’t like the smell of — vomit . . . ?
So, here it is. My last poem for Post-It Note Poetry for this year.
I am but a passenger
On the back of this world.
I’ve really enjoyed writing a poem a day. It gave me permission to write poetry in the first place, something I’ve been scared to do because poetry is hard y’all. It tested my ability to be concise. And it was a wonderful practice in general. Also, I got to read other people’s awesome poems. 🙂
I had such a good time with this I am thinking of challenging myself to write a poem a week for the rest of this year. It would give me more practice writing poetry, that’s for sure.
This was originally supposed to be a post-it note poem, but it turned out to be too big for a post-it note. So I decided to post it here. It’s still very much a work in progress, but I hope you enjoy it.
The smell of you
in the morning.
I have some catching up to do on my post-it note poetry! Have the last three day’s worth of poems.
She can’t move
She can’t breathe
Her tiny life
One of billions
Without a sound.