Skip to main content

The "What"

In the style of Alice Notley. 

What are you in love with? What. Not
who. Who implies a face, a name, a some
body. What. What turned that lump of flesh
into a beating heart?
It can't be a mantra of "because I told you so's" & norms & have to's.
It must be an endless list
of want to's & need to's & the slightest of inflections &
feelings beyond what can be encompassed in a he/she/it/they/them
Or even us.
That is the meaning of the "what".
It surpasses the who's & how's.
It is the what.
It is the dichotomy of never understanding why,
but knowing that it's right all the same.

Comments

  1. I really like how this poem makes you reevaluate your emotions. It's not really enough to stop at "who", there's something else behind that. I think the line breaks are very interestingly placed. It made me pace myself more when reading rather than reading each line as a sentence. It gives a slight feeling of quick breaths but more than that it makes me comprehend the message better.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I absolutely adore this poem. We briefly mentioned this in class, but the "unapologetic" tone of the piece, coupled with the intentional ambiguity injected into the speaker's tone, make for a captivating read! You did a really good job of capturing and expressing the imperfection and sense of confusion/ "amorphousness" that often accompany falling in love. Personally, I wouldn't change much, as I thought you've done a wonderful job with this piece. My only recommendation is to change how you've divided the first and second lines (to make the piece start off more smoothly):
    "What are you in love with? What. Not who.
    Who implies a face, a name, a some body"

    ReplyDelete
  3. I'm delighted to note that this poem has now been published on our class website, 215Lexicon!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Known

If this cul-de-sac could talk It would tells tales of break downs tantrums & panic attacks. It would tell stories of blood shot eyes and wordless journaling.   It is where I first put pen to paper outside of my middle school English class. It is anything but natural. There are trees, yes,   but even the soil feels man made, intentional.   My neighborhood could be cut out   of a magazine, spider webs and all.   So, when the uncertain world around me crumbles to mulch at my feet. I venture out,   notebook in hand, into the   Known.  

Concrete

It had never been so bright, Blinded, beaten, bruised. Look left right and left again, The platitude unused. The gravel on my fingers, Blood drying on my cheeks.   Faces blur above me, As I attempt to speak. The heat begins to rise, It takes my breath away. I sink into the Earth, Ceasing the display. A Summer day in June, The neighborhood’s alive. I want to play and run and jump, But forever, here I lie.

Anecdo, Anecdon't

I look down from on high A species differentiated Nourished, yet unrooted Autonomous instead of attached. I wring droplets from dry air Extracting something from nothing. Inherently disparate: “Air Plant”. Contradiction within identity, Developing dissonance of the dubbed. Lacking stability, free floating   A gentle breeze snarls my limbs Longing for the conventions of soil. Maybe basic is better Tradition is rooted, not rote.   Misplaced piousness, Is not an improvement. Head in the clouds Must keep my feet in the ground.   Edited: 2/19