A Poem Inspired by Weezer

In my graduate poetry writing workshop, we recently studied the prose poem.  For those who haven’t discussed modes of writing in several years (what kind of weirdo discusses modes of writing?), prose is basically any writing that is not in verse.  For example, novels and instruction manuals are both written in prose, whereas poetry is written in verse.  It’s a basic distinction.  Well, there’s this thing called a prose poem, and it is a hybrid of both modes of writing.  It is a poem whose rhythm is controlled by sentences rather than by traditional poetic constraints, such as line and rhyme.  Often they look like paragraphs, but they’re usually not indented like a paragraph.  Think of them as blocks of prose.  Yet they function like poems.  In other words, they possess poetic rhythm and language, and they compress lots of meaning into a tiny space.  The more of them you read, the more you get a feel for what a prose poem is.


Below is one of my attempts at writing prose poetry.  It is inspired by the recent Weezer concert I attended.  I have long referred to Weezer as my favorite band, due largely to the affinity I developed for them as an undergraduate. The poem is presented as a photo, because it was important to show what a prose poem may look like on a page rather than on a blog post.  And just as a page is often bent a little, so too is this cellphone photo–a happy accident.  Here it goes.

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My Nerudian Ode

I wrote an ode in the style of Pablo Neruda–short lines, straightforward language, celebratory of something.  My ode celebrates the pre-dawn.



Ode to the Pre-dawn


Nightly mystery

and portent of dawn,

both are yours—

a residue of terror,

filtered down and

swirled with hope.

You wrap the back deck

in autumn’s first chill,

and fill the air with

the sharp whir of tree frogs,

thrumming in choral refrain.

You dabble in glows—

my studio lamps,

drawing me downstairs;

the inward glow of coffee’s

aroma and gift of heat;

soda-lit parking lots

silhouetting trunks;

blackish-purple horizon,

washing out toward town,

clouds absorbing city lights

in a sooty, diffuse orange—

backlighting the cedar spires

that rise from the waterway.

The deep, metallic buzz

of neighboring HVAC units

lends a bass rumble

to the pre-dawn chorus.

Stars flicker

in their final watches.

An unseen smoker

hijacks the air.

How can one little cigarette

supplant all other smells?

Back indoors, only I stir,

wrapped in caution,

muffling every sound

so that this fragile,

pre-dawn stillness

does not shatter.


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A Literary Tie to Rodney Dangerfield?

  1. The rodney-dangerfieldIt’s true, and you’ve probably seen it.  In the movie Back to School, Rodney Dangerfield’s character recites and is inspired by Dylan Thomas’s famous villanelle, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.”  The poetic form known as the villanelle is a tough one to write, requiring two regularly repeating lines, or refrains.  The greatest challenge lies in creating refrains that are strong enough and flexible enough to be worked into the poem over and over without becoming tiresome, stodgy, or insensible.  Oh yeah, and they have to rhyme.


When I set out to write a villanelle, I took as subject matter the unadorned architecture of strip malls and used it to reflect on the general blandness of day-to-day suburban life.  So my poem is not as lofty as Thomas’s, but I believe I stayed true to the form.  Here is my attempt:





As featureless as dried mud, dull and beige,

and failing to attract my loyalty,

two strip malls squat, wherein bides this malaise


that has no cure.  It’s not an every-place

but a paean to mediocrity,

as featureless as dried mud.  Dull and beige


storefronts house businesses of middling taste.

We frequent only one of them, maybe

two.  Strip malls squat, wherein bides this malaise


that Walker Percy calls the modern state

of mind, its exterior equally

as featureless.  As dried mud, dull and beige,


absorbs despair in fissures, like numbed rage,

convenience dictates that we visit the

two strip malls.  Squat.  Wherein bides this malaise,


the sting of reality dissipates.

Markers of class are difficult to see.

As featureless as dried mud, dull and beige,

two strip malls squat, wherein bides this malaise.



*photo courtesy of www.ericgarland.co/2013/12/02/u-s-colleges-keep-football-team-ice-pick-english-department/