In 3200, we had to write prose poems. I hate them. I didn't really know how to do it, but I tried and what resulted was essentially just a really long rant against death and the practices surrounding it (my aunt passed away that semester and my writing huddled around that). I sort of just let it fall to the side until I read this poem by Angel Gonzalez; something about the way the poem on the surface level handled death reminded me of my "So Sorry For Your Derailment" and I had a notion to work an improv around that--not trying, necessarily, to riff right off of Gonzalez's piece, but to somehow allow it to reign my monstrosity in a bit (and, better yet, get it out of prose form :-D!). I've transcribed Gonzalez's piece below as well as my huge prose piece. Then, finally, a very light attempt to narrow down my work--not into poem form yet, but pulling potential lines from my longer piece. I'd like anyone's opinion on the lines I pulled and if you think some are unworthy/others are more worthy to be included in an actual draft. I'd also like to point out that yes, I know it's difficult to write about death--I don't pretend to be any good at it. But, I might as well try, considering I see the connection between these two pieces. If you make it through this whole post, you deserve some special recognition...:
Diatribe Against the Dead
-Angel Gonzalez
The dead are selfish:
they make us dry and don’t care,
they stay quiet in the most inconvenient places,
they refused to walk, we have to carry them
on ourbacks to the tomb
as if they were children. What a burden!
Unusually rigid, their faces
accuse us of something, or warn us;
they are the bad conscience, the bad example,
they are the worst things in our lives always, always.
The bad thing about the dead
is that there is no way you can kill them.
Their constant destructive labor
is for that reason incalculable.
Insensitive, distant, obstinate, cold,
with their insolence and their silence
they don’t realize what they undo.
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So Sorry for Your Derailment
I am clasped by hands, rocked to and fro between heavy bodies, then caught and twirled and hurled into another mass of flesh and groping. These unidentified friendly obstructions constrict and pull my head down to rest on their shoulders, because I am so sad, and suffocation is the answer.
I think God must know me, now, by name and face and social because everyone and their preacher’s mother prays for me in this tragic time and sometimes they say, don’t I know that everything happens for a reason? And so I should be happy because God has a plan, don’t I know, and that plan involved making you an angel.
I hear that you’re watching over me always now. So I should never feel alone and I don’t like that because I now fleetingly glance around before stepping out of the shower, now I can’t make a joke at your expense.
I am told they are so sorry for my loss—always so sorry—and I wonder, could they be as sorry for a loss of another commodity, like a shoe, or a game of monopoly? I wonder why they express such sweet sorrow because if I hadn’t watched your suffering, sucking in broken breathes while pretending it was normal, if we hadn’t had hospice over lunch, what excuse would they have for their intrusion?
I wonder, while my shoulders are gripped and strangers weep into me, why they are calling you a loss. You were a blessing, maybe. But you must not be a loss because a loss can be found and so I want to tell them they’re wrong. I’ve looked already—in the spice aisle at Piggly Wiggly, beneath a pile of laundry, over my shoulder in the mirror.
I don’t want anyone to be sorry for my loss—and I want to tell them the word is dead. I want them to be so sorry because of the delivery man, because he glares at me now, each time he unloads the newest truck load of flowers. They can be sorry that my phone line has become everyone else’s confession line—why didn’t I come sooner, they wail. I want them to be so sorry that I can never listen to that song again, or smell that disgusting candle without thinking about you. I want them to be sorry not that you’re gone but that you’re not all the way gone.
I don’t want them to be sorry at all because don’t they know I am forever embossed in that moment of so-called loss and their sorrys will do nothing. This is loss, right? It feels more like devastation or derailment and so maybe they should be so sorry for this devastation, so sorry for this derailment.
I’m telling you, I’m okay until someone asks me if I’m okay. And then I’m not. They don’t seem to understand that grieving is not something you move on from, it’s something you exist with and within and around and if they don’t get that, I have to wonder, are they okay?
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Lines/Ideas I'd like to work with:
unidentified friendly obstructions
God must know me, now, by name and face and social because everyone and their preacher’s mother prays for me
could they be as sorry for a loss of another commodity, like a shoe, or a game of monopoly?
you must not be a loss because a loss can be found and so I want to tell them they’re wrong. I’ve looked already—in the spice aisle at Piggly Wiggly
I want them to be so sorry because of the delivery man, because he glares at me now, each time he unloads the newest truck load of flowers. They can be sorry that my phone lie has become everyone else’s confession line—why didn’t I come sooner, they wail.
It feels more like devastation or derailment and so maybe they should be so sorry for this devastation, so sorry for this derailment.
I want them to be sorry not that you’re gone but that you’re not all the way gone.
So...what does everyone think? Possibly worked into a draft, or dropped?
First of all, Jenna, I just want to commend you on the expansive nature of the draft. Give, it is "prosey" in some areas, but that is such and easy fix!! You have so much awesome working for you in this draft. I'm actually really excited- if you couldn't already tell.
ReplyDeleteOkay, so:
Like the first calisthenic exercise Dr. Davidson had us work through (expansion and contraction)... do that here! All you need to do is go through the draft and cut out unnecessary words; just clean house. You also already a leg up considering the fact that you have taken the time to pull out and separate lines that you truly love, and know you want to work with in a future draft.
There are some lines that you do not have on your list already that NEEEEED to be there (in my opinion, like:
"now I can’t make a joke at your expense," "I don’t want anyone to be sorry for my loss—and I want to tell them the word is dead," "I am told they are so sorry for my loss—always so sorry"... these are just a few. Of course, you may need to go back through these lines as well and make them more neat, again cleaning house.
The overall idea of the draft is fascinating. Your language is beautiful... so let it do the work. I would show this to Dr. Davidson, he will be able help you tidy-up the draft a good bit.
I hope to see a future draft!
Alright, formalistically, “derailment” is fairly accurate. I like what you do toward the end of the draft—with the verse “coming off the rails,” as it were—who actually says that?—by losing its dependency upon tighter language. That being said, I do feel there’s a difference between a kind of Ashberry or, perhaps more muted, hence more readily useful, Lowellian unraveling, and what’s represented in this draft. Granted, this one’s still fairly raw. In the interest of future directions, however, I’d look to, as Sydney pointed out, concision, most definitely. And, I can’t help this, but I’m not a fan of the prose format…you can keep that, but I’d look to other examples in an attempt, if, for nothing else, to recognize the line where “enough” becomes “too much.” Especially considering the instantly cathartic associations that spring from such a piece…I’d watch the length.
ReplyDeleteOne spot I feel like might’ve been glossed over in Sydney’s commentary is your dependence upon clichéd phrasings. To me, and this is totally uninformed observation, when things like this crop up the work smacks of lesser craftsmanship. Of course, with any creative work, the constructor would like to disguise the constructed, hence “false,” elements of the piece, but there is a difference between “authentic” elegy, which is never possible anyway, and exultation fit for an audience. By all means, concision, yes, but, more than that, take a hacksaw to the thing. There’s no reason to short-sell the work in this way—burn the clichés and look for linguistic moments that make the thing matter, that separate it from the litany of “I’m Sorry for Your Loss” cards that this draft seems to be speaking to.
I liked this draft in 3200, but I completely understand your desire to groom it. I hate prose poems as well. I completely agree with the same lines Sydney requested you keep, in addition to these:
ReplyDelete“These unidentified friendly obstructions constrict and pull my head down to rest on their shoulders, because I am so sad, and suffocation is the answer.”
“I hear that you’re watching over me always now. So I should never feel alone, I don’t like that, because I now fleetingly glance around before stepping out of the shower, now I can’t make a joke at your expense.”
I really admire the humor found in this draft and don’t want that to be lost. Hope to see it soon!