I need a hundred more of you to make a likelihood. The mirror's not convincing – that at-best in- ferred person. As time's revealing gets revolting, I start looking out. Look in and what you see is one unholy blurred person.
from Ghazal of the Better-Unbegun by Heather McHugh
The nicest thing somebody ever said to me about a piece of writing was: “It’s got legs.” With these mythical legs the possibilities seemed endless.
Well, I’m now sitting down with some writing for the first time in ages without interruption. Looking at the poems now from a distance, I can’t discern any legs. Maybe the poems are not only legless, but nothing. In disguise. Nothing with a moustache on, maybe some googly eyes.
An old friend’s advice, when I was stuck, was often simply: “Write something else.” It was surprisingly helpful advice. It’s always a relief to cut a fresh path. The problem is, you often end up with a hodgepodge of cobbled-together material because of all the something-elses. Which I guess is where the usual advice comes in: “Finish what you’ve started.” For example, I have a plethora of one-sentence poems. I’m not sure if you can call them poems. They’re more like, pos. Each one should be prefaced with the instruction: “Please wait here until you are useful.”
The Garden of Exile
Two men drinking beer
together in an indentation
in the oleaster hedge
Today I had an idea to take a series of questions that people have asked on Quora – a question-and-answer site – and arrange them as a poem, loosely following the villanelle form. I don’t visit Quora much these days, but when I do, I’m struck by the odd and sad questions that are often asked. I may be wrong, but some of the questions don’t seem to expect an answer. They’re like shouting down a well. “If you’re tired of London, are you tired of life?” “Why do my co-workers talk so much?” “How can I learn to feel loved?” “When will it end?” And that’s kind of what a poem – and a blog – is, sometimes, a shout down a well.
So I spun a rough villanelle out of some questions I found interesting. But then, from out of the something-else, the old fear grew: maybe it’s nothing again, dammit. And maybe all of these something-elses betray a fear of commitment. Also, maybe this brazen pillaging from one source is actually a sign of an imagination that’s gone cold and congealed. Ah well. Everybody gather round.
Interrogative villanelle
What does it mean if a muscle is tender?
If human beings are meant to survive, why are men shy?
Whatever happened to the London pop group Sister?
If I receive poor service in a restaurant, what is the best way to show my displeasure?
What is it like to hate your own child?
What does it mean if a muscle is tender?
What is it like, when eating a food item, to unexpectedly bite into a finger?
What’s it like to be a compulsive liar?
Whatever happened to the London pop group Sister?
How do I make sure I don’t get dementia?
Is God keeping me infertile so I can’t have a child?
What does it mean when a muscle is tender?
How can I learn to control my temper?
What is the greatest mix-tape of all time?
Whatever happened to the London pop group Sister?
How will our lives be misremembered?
When talking to others, how frequently should a young man smile?
What does it mean when a muscle is tender?
Whatever happened to the London pop group Sister?
This quasi-villanelle grew out of this much more sprawly and unstructured list that for now I’ve called “Mechanical bull”.
Sometimes, quite often, you impress us all, dollface. xA.
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Great idea for a poem! Really enjoyed your interrogative villanelle.
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Thank you, both! I should clarify that I’m not fishing here. Just, y’know, venting.
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