This week I’d like to share an experimental poem with you. This poem is partially a found poem and takes its inspiration and form from a dictionary entry.
Because of the form I’m forced to present this poem through the use of an image file. For those of you who use screen readers, I will paste the text into the alt caption. I hope it still makes sense that way!
after Dorien de Wit
in the beginning there were days
your emails I saved unread in the junk folder
between Mr Bill Gates says Hello,
Michael Kors Handbags,
Hot Girls, Hello
on Google Maps I’ve found the secret
an island called Mainland
for weeks in my purse I’ve been carrying a book about the man
who thought up cloud classification
I was so happy that clouds fit into a structure
what should I say when I see you?
the most important thing is
to jump in at the right moment
like back in the day in the schoolyard
when I still collected pencil shavings and discovered
that popcorn is corn kernels turned inside out
explosions are beautiful but their shape is unpredictable
through this country there runs a growing fault line
you said with a distant gaze
in your eyes I saw myself and the landscape mirrored
searching where the tearing began.
Tom Cruise has decreed in a contract
that one can’t look straight at him
there’s something in his eyes
or is it because looking
is a kind of touching
Another poem by Dutch poet Dorien de Wit. I like translating her work. I haven’t figured out her thought process yet, but I like her imagery and currentness. The original poem can be found here.
The Bluebeards of today no longer lock
their beloved in a crumbling castle,
behind a high iron gate with creeping ivy.
No locked room, cupboard, shiny key
to tempt. Or bodies hidden,
except in dark recesses in his mind.
Instead an end-of-terrace, maybe a suburban semi.
Red brick patched up. Stones not quite matching.
Also, the roof needs replacing.
At night beloved stares at the drapes hanging
like wet sheets on a foggy windless autumn day,
listening to the quiet rhythmic snores.
The succubus on beloved’s chest, the heaviness
of well-meaning oh-I-know-your-mind’s,
wild streams of consciousness hemmed in.
They’re canals now, the little voice buried deep.
Pull it out of the dark crypt of beloved’s stomach cavity
where it was burning up in the acid.
Give it a paper boat and a river
that gorges itself on minutiae, the details
of goings-on revealed.
Let it sail under the portcullis
of gaslighting
and appear a little shaken but free
I thought I’d share this poem with you today. It’s an older poem that keeps getting rejected by magazines. I’ve revised and changed it, but still no luck.
I did receive some feedback from the last publication I sent this poem to. They said they liked it, but that it fell just short of really impressing them because of the lack of personal detail. They said they felt that I was holding back, and they are probably right. Some things are hard to write about. Especially if you don’t fully understand them yourself. But poetry is a means of working through difficult emotions and thoughts, so I think that this poem is valid in the way that it expresses just how difficult it can be to be completely honest and open.
Perhaps one day I’ll return to this poem and will be able to fill in the blanks.
Tender Rebellion 