Glow worm - the poem.
Following on from Adrian's suggestion (in comments here) that some poems would be better written as prose I did the reverse...and by adding a few line breaks converted my 101 word story into a 101 word poem...well maybe it is a poem, I don't really know. I think I prefer it as a piece of prose but I don't know why. But it is strange that just changing the way it is set out on the page makes such a difference.
He had wings,
I did not.
Wait for me, he said,
so I did.
Up a stem then down again,
every night for a week.
It was a hot
mid-summer,
no rain,
no excuses,
but he didn't come.
I glowed with rage.
Then I shone with embarrassment.
I told myself he didn't matter,
that there were plenty more bugs in the air
- and lit the sky with my mournful radiance.
Which, it turned out, did the trick.
A multiple birth!
Glow now, they say,
but I cannot.
It will be the death of me, I say,
and know I am right.
He had wings,
I did not.
Wait for me, he said,
so I did.
Up a stem then down again,
every night for a week.
It was a hot
mid-summer,
no rain,
no excuses,
but he didn't come.
I glowed with rage.
Then I shone with embarrassment.
I told myself he didn't matter,
that there were plenty more bugs in the air
- and lit the sky with my mournful radiance.
Which, it turned out, did the trick.
A multiple birth!
Glow now, they say,
but I cannot.
It will be the death of me, I say,
and know I am right.
posted by Clare Dudman at 1:40 pm
5 Comments:
Ah, but I think your instinct for line breaks is instinctively more musical then Mr. Muldoon's and hence by definition the poem is quite a bit removed in pace and feel from the original story.
You two are starting to confuse me now.
I originally was unable, as usual, to resist the challenge of a 101 word story, like so:
Ruptured Dreams
Her dreams had been ruptured. Let me explain. Dreams glow in the dark. They are not the illogical firings of delinquent synapses but are, in fact, organisms in their own right: a kind of target-beetle that flies through the scorched bedroom air and absorbs the energies of its subject and gifts it back as luminous, half-forgotten images. But this beetle was wounded - scalded by the troubles of a previous subject - and could no longer emit the light that held the dreamstuff together. So the scars of one had become the scars of the other and the epidemic was spreading…
but then it seemed I had to break it up into a poem and I found I jsut couldn't do that without tinkering with it. (Still turned out at 101 words, though.)
Ruptured Dreams Poem
Her dreams
Ruptured
(Let me explain)
Dreams glow in the dark
Not delinquent synapse firings
Following their specious paths
But things far more organic:
Target-beetles flying through
The scorching of the bedroom air
(Absorbing all that's in its path
Absorbs its subject's energies
And gifts it back
And gifts it back
As half-forgotten pictures)
But this one wounded
Scalded by the past
Blemished by old time
Poisoned by the troubles
Of its previous night-starched host
Its light went out
The dreamstuff fell apart
So the scars of one
Had now become
The dreamscars of the other
(The epidemic growing
The epidemic spreading…)
I wish Paul Muldoon would comment on my blog...
Yep, I think I prefer this as a poem (if it is a poem, I'm not qualified to say...)
Too kind, Adrian...but thanks.
Ghez Hu: amazing stuff. A barrage of images - dreams glowing in the dark, dreams as organisms...quite incredible and stimulating.
Jonathan: has Paul Muldoon commented? I would love to think so, difficult to know but my impression is that his name was used just for the purposes of rhythm
sorry to say this but in your poem "Ghez Hu" it has 105 words not 101 as you typed "and gifts it back" twice so therefore you are incorrect about the 101 words in the poem.
baaaaaaaahahahahahaha
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