Writing Prose Poetry Again

I've taken to writing prose poems again. It has been a while. The last few years haven't felt poetic, though I know everything can be and ought to be poetic. Comedy and tragedy, love and death, happiness and depression. It's all fodder for writing and anything fits inside a poem if done right, but that's the sticky part, doing it right. I often feel insufficient to the task. One day of not writing poetry becomes two becomes a month, a year, and I get thinking maybe I've forgotten how to do the thing at all.

This reminds me of a scene from a terrible Christmas movie The Perfect Christmas List. (It's so terrible I've watched it three years in a row. One can only watch a movie ironically so many times before having to admit liking it.) In that terrible movie, which I readily admit to liking, a woman on an ice-skating date, wobbles as though she has never been on skates. Moments later she is revealed to have been a figure skater in her youth good enough to merit a plaque at the rink. Terrible Christmas movies are renowned for inconsistencies, but this one bugged me. No one forgets their skills so thoroughly.

So it is with writing poetry. (I mean it's tough to forget how to do it, not that poetry should be anything at all like The Perfect Christmas List.) I know how to write prose poetry. I can't forget. That I haven't written much of it this year is beside the point. A year isn't time enough to develop much rust. Going back to it is as simple as lacing up the skates and glide across the page.

This afternoon before therapy, I drafted a prose poem about an imitation Arts and Crafts table in the waiting room. A week ago, I wrote two other prose poems that have proven a bit tougher to put out in the world. One is someone else's story they graciously gave me the okay to share. The other, about death, might upset the living, but maybe a little disturbance is good for the soul.

Still, after drafting, I held them back, revising for days and days. It was an odd pleasure to create something and hold onto it rather than send it into the world. Reminded me to write for myself first. Having an audience helps me become a better writer and gives another purpose to the writing, but the first purpose is just to write and that's often enough. Who needs to publish? Then again, you're reading this thing that I've published, so I may be full of crap.

I've taken to writing prose poems again. It feels good flaking off the rust, turning the gears of this machine, and cranking out the work I've built it to do.

Dying A Little

After shoveling inches of heavy, wet snow from the driveway and sidewalk, I lie down in the driveway and die a little. A light flurry falls through the grey air onto my bare face, my eyes open. I feel the cold driveway leach heat from my body. I keep careful track of how much dying I'm doing. It's a balance, dying a little, dying just the right amount. Go too far and that's it. Ask Dad. He lay down in his driveway five cold winters ago. You pushed it too far, old man. The medics couldn't bring you back. You needed the lazy finger of God, a spark of lightning. The kind of lightning that came in a snow storm three days too late. I doubt it was God, wherever the hell he was hiding. I doubt too it could have brought you back. You died too much. You were gone. Back in my driveway, I thing I know right where you are. There. Down by the street. A cigarette held lightly in your hand as you say your old line. Telling me, stand up, we've got money on you. I get up slowly. Brush myself off. You stubs out your cigarette in the street. A plow roars around the corner, a wave of snow rolling in front of it. That wave crashes down across the driveway, wipes you right away. Gone again. Gone too far. I hang the shovel in the garage. Push the button to close the door. The mouth of the driveway is plowed in. The falling snow has already dusted most of the rest. I look out there. At the assembled dead looking down at the spot where I laid down. A space left clear, black as night, a reverse angel slowly fading away.

Road Hazards

As we're leaving the church, my friend says his truck is in the shop after another crash. Last time his son took a winter curve past the coefficient of friction. What this time, I wonder. I hadn't yet noticed the change in him. He says, a deer. I recall another deer that he and I watched run into the side of my car. It wrecked a fender. Tore off a mirror. Rolled across the hood. Then ran into the woods. My surprise turned to anger, but that faded fast. I was unchanged by the thing, restored with a shake of my head and a smile. A body shop replaced the fenders and side mirror. I recall that as we stand in the church vestibule and my friend says again, a deer. He says, at seventy miles per hour it appeared from the darkness. No time for brakes, he says. I see an explosion of flesh and fur against steel and glass. I cringe thinking of the flesh and bone inside the truck. His wife's head concussed on the dash. His arm burned by the airbag. He says, she's different. I see now that he is too. We look at the carpet, the cold walls of the church. I see him through the unfocused lens of memory and wonder if we ever really heal or just change according to some plan. There's no going back. At best, we go on. His truck, in the shop under fluorescent light may be restored, perhaps good as new. We leave the church, go out into the diffused, grey morning sunlight. The shop in which perhaps our bodies are restored. Our frames aligned. Our engines tuned so we again move down the road at speed. I shake my friend's hand. Say goodbye. Get in my car and turn the key. Soon I'm back on the highway, fingers tight on the wheel, eyes searching ahead for the hazards we have no hope of avoiding, wishing for some guide past all that waits in the woods to cross the paths we are traveling at far too much speed.

Imitations

At my therapist's office stands a desk made to look like fine furniture. Gustav Stickley's ghost is big around these parts. His factory still stands in a suburb nearby. Over a hundred years later, it houses a library instead of furniture and woodworkers. I'm carrying a book borrowed from that library. A slim collection of poetry I'm too anxious right now to read. The book is pure craft and rhythm. I am something else entirely. Stickley furniture is beautiful. Form, function, artistry, grace. Stickley pieces weren't made to look like anything else. They were exactly what they were built to be. Originals. The desk at my therapist's office, well, that's a pale imitation in every sense. A disappointment. I set the book of poems on its surface and open the top drawer. Inside, I find the Allen wrench and instruction booklet used to assemble it from whatever cardboard box in which it shipped. The instructions in English, Spanish, and maybe Japanese. I close the drawer, a flimsy thing, and consider a peek beneath the desktop where crude hardware and Phillips head screws have surely replaced craft. Instead, I go into the bathroom and close the door. A mirror shows my reflection, a flat imitation of a face crafted over half a century, resolved now in doubt. I stare, resisting the urge to reach into the reflection and comfort the man there, knowing I'll come up short, my hand pressed against cold glass, the distance between what I look like and what I wish terribly confirmed. Outside the bathroom door, the imitation desk, the poems I can't read, the appointment with my therapist perhaps to discuss what is and is not real.