This shows up in just_jeff‘s comments for his assignment to write an unrhymed sonnet. Try it, if you haven’t!

FISH AND CHIPS

The smell of the place was with me before
I ever set eyes on it. “Ron’s Clam Shack,”
read the blistered sign; cars filled the cracked lot,
the line coiled around the yellow porchfront
and stopped under an old oak. I parked, joined
the crowd waiting for clam strips and bellies.
Then I saw you, with your toddler in tow,
walking back to the minivan as you
laughed and licked a softserve cone. Your husband
got out to kiss you. You never saw me.
You got in, you drove off. I closed my eyes:
they’d betrayed me again. I do better
when I don’t trust them. I followed my nose,
got fish and chips, and cried all the way home.

Random writing engendered by the line.

Drove in from my satellite office in Westboro to the home office, depressed, numb, blasting myself out of the depression with Metallica’s “Garage, Inc.” album; blasting their cover of Queen’s “Stone Cold Crazy;” sitting in the parking lot staring at the rich folks’ cars.

I pull my badge from above the visor, and head in to work.

I don’t suspect much of this will make it through to the poem. The monk may stick around for a draft or two. You always start somewhere.

I tend to be far less autobiographical than some poets, although there’s always a bit of factual truth in there, usually heavily disguised; it would be a mistake to assume that my poems tell you anything about my life beyond my dreams, my enthusiasms, my fears.

Which of course is everything truly important. Just don’t assume I actually listen to Metallica, ok?

Except, of course, when I do.

When your face is at war with your faith

This has been sitting in the brain pan for a couple of days now…and I don’t know where to start talking about it.

Free association has included everything from the Crusades to Nip/Tuck, which I’ve never seen.

A straight interpretation leads me obviously down the path of someone trying to hide something about themselves and failing to do so.

A more oblique possibility includes folks who don’t appear to be something they actually are — at least, to the uninformed eye; I’m thinking blond haired, blue-eyed Muslims, for instance. Some startling possibilities offer themselves in that case — a poem about racism revealed, or prejudice found in an unexpected place.

If I go that route, the line will likely be catalyst only, then disappear.

I think this is really about how to decide among these possibilities. I’ve never believed in writer’s block, just in periods where the path seems narrower.

And the truth is, talent is not about the craft piece; not really. Craft can be learned to a great extent. Talent, in any art form, is the test of what choices you make as to where you put your technique.

The oblique possibilities are more challenging here than the obvious one. But the true test, of course, is to see if I can make it do double duty; can I bring both threads together in one poem? Hmmmm…