12. You'll Be Much Delighted With This Story

I decided to write a poem using random lines pulled from books. Rather than use just one poetry anthology, though, I drew three very different books from my bookshelf:

A collection of poems called Four Centuries of Great Love Poems
A romance novel by Christina Skye titled Going Overboard
When the Messenger is Hot, by Elizabeth Crane. A collection of nonfiction short stories detailing the mishaps of Crane’s modern love life.

I wanted to at least have some continuity, so I intentionally got three books centering around love. Here are the lines I pulled:
_________________________________

Shall be so much delighted with thy story

But she had always believed in guarding her privacy

Unresolved issues with her mother

To strike you down? And what of all those hot

If discretion had a human face

What if I have a terrible accident and kill my dying mother?

Know that love is a careless child

Feeling as if something deep inside of her had torn free and lay bleeding.

You realize you had measured age in quarter-years since you were eleven

Now I am haunted by that taste! that sound!

Waving balloons, party hats and drinks with little paper umbrellas

And I felt very close to nature that way

Of womenkind such indeed is the love

Body rigid, gown traced by cold moonlight

The elevator man came back the next day.

All the comforts of home.

And there’s something shiny with my name on it, but there’s still no me.

That long preserved virginity

Starting to sob while reading Curious George

You’re selling dreams and capturing beauty.
_________________________________
So then I just started writing. I picked lines I liked, fit them together and soon enough a poem started to reveal itself to me. After that I just had to change a few things around to make it make sense and continue writing. I realized I was doing quatrains and just made it into a loose sonnet form--very loose. Here it is:

You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story

You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you were eleven.
Starting to sob while reading Curious George,
Waving party hats and balloons and drinks with little paper umbrellas,
You wonder if you’re selling dreams or stealing beauty.

You have always believed in guarding your privacy--
That long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to nature that way.
Nothing inside was ever torn free and left bleeding.

But now you are haunted by a shapeless taste, an undefined sound.
Now you know that love is a careless child;
That the elevator man will not always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a human face?

For women, such indeed is love--
It strikes you down. And what of all those hot
Rigid bodies, gowns traced by the cold moonlight?
But you had always believed in guarding your privacy.

You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you ever eleven.
And there’s something shiny with your name on, but there is still nothing.

_________________________________

After that, I tried to force it into a syllabic. It’s seven syllables per line (though admittedly eight on a few). Here it is:

You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story

You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
Starting to sob while you
Are reading Curious George,
Waving party hats, holding
balloons and drinks with little
umbrellas, tropic names.
You wonder if you’re selling
dreams or stealing beauty.

You had always believed in
guarding your privacy--That
long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to all
nature that way. Nothing was
ever torn free and left bleeding.

But now you are haunted by
a shapeless taste, an undefined
sound. Now you know that love is
A careless child and the
elevator man will not
always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a face?

For women, such indeed is
love-- It strikes you down. And what
of all of those hot, rigid
bodies, gowns traced by the cold
moonlight? But you had always
Clung to guarded privacy.

You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
And there’s something shiny with
your name on it, but still nothing.

I much prefer the first one to the syllabic. It felt very forced, where as the first syllabic I wrote for class did not, and I ended up having to throw in useless words and cut other important ones; not to mention the very random stanza lengths. I really liked the process, though, and will probably try it again with the other lines I got this time (how can I pass up “unresolved issues with her mother” next to “What if I have an accident and kill my dying mother?). Maybe a pantoum?

11. The Shape of Content

Obsessive Compulsive

As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back as I count.
One, skip one, three, four.
tick, Tick, tick, tick.
Why can’t I be normal?

One, skip one, three, four.
It is compulsive. It is repulsive.
Why can’t this be normal?
I try so hard.

It is repulsively compulsive though,
and each time my hand and mind combat. But it continues.:
One, skip one, three, four
I try so hard--

My hand and mind combat. Will it continue?
My hand jerkily falters.
One--two--three, four.
I hold still so I won’t be this way.

But my hand begins to falter.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I can’t hold still. I can’t be this way.
As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back. And I re-count.


I think I can already feel how much 3200 has changed my ideas about poetry and myself as a poet. I still say I'm not, and I don't know why, because I don't hate it anymore, but I stand by that idea. Regardless, I can already look at past poems, just from the last couple of semesters, and compare them to poems of the last few weeks and see/hear a difference. I don't know if my readers totally see the depth I do, but that's the next step.

I say that because of the above poem. I wrote it for a class last year and at the time really like the outcome. I thought that for only my first or second try at a pantoum it wasn't so bad. I guess I still believe that, considering it was also about the fourth poem I'd written in the past six years, but now I can look at it and think "Ah, I should have done that."

Other than the obviously horrific and unoriginal title, I notice several places with opportunities to make the lines so much stronger and so less cliched. But what I still enjoy about this particular piece is the subject in relation to the form. What better subject matter is there, for a rigid form such as a pantoum, than being bound by OCD?

I'm looking forward to editing this into a better state as well as trying another pantoum this weekend!