The poems in the
new literary review
are long winded
like me and my
menopausal middle
(or end)
wide and seemingly
without boundary
word upon word upon word
they
write and write and write
until what?
until the train of thought (finally) subsides or
the ink runs out or
the smooth gray lead breaks or
the ribbon runs dry
Wait!
Does technology even have an end point
Does it ever run out?
save for the
Who came up with the idea of a
battery-operated keyboard anyway?
I confess the poems are so long
three pages, six pages, eight pages
I can’t even read them…
my glasses run out of patience
Is that bad? Does that make me a poeta non grata?
What little I can read / bear / swallow
are full up with words
in LONG POEM form
like the exercise of writing
a 500-word essay in school
gathering flowery fragments of tethered expressions joined by marks intended to separate elements and clarify meaning
onto the page
It’s me, I’m the problem. It’s me.
This stew of hormones and ego
fear and frustration
resistance
even in the face of its futility
Please don’t make me fit into this form
wear spanx
abstain from ice cream
suck in my belly
while I
write and write and write
until I’m as out-of-breath as me
post core workout
post parking lot incline
post headline skimming
post anticipating the bleak future that lies ahead
“The long poem is just right for our confounding, fractured age”
writes a woman named Tess I do not know
Perhaps that explains it:
poets wanting to sink into this epic age
“represent the sheer unmanageable scale, the vast and messy confusion, the epic ambivalence, of the 21st century”
while I am pen-wielding and at-the-ready
to slip out the back door and tell you
about the voles who have taken up residence here
in this hundred-year-old cottage
built by a family who wanted nothing more
than a place to enjoy their summers —
listen to bullfrogs in the pond
and watch fireflies dance over the edge
of the mossy granite ledge
where now I plant iris
and wait to catch a glimpse
of the bobcat who only once visited my yard, but still…
But still…ness
is what is required
in these monstrous days
when even poets can’t sit idle
or wax nostalgic about bobcats
and large bowls of ice cream
or plain old simpler times
charged instead to take up the pen and the sword
write and write and write
until the margins explode
or we do
Poem ©2024 Jen Payne with references to an article by Tess Somervell in PSYCHE. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
randomactsofwriting.net 