Sunday, 21 April 2019

Who Struck The Match?

Today I'm sharing the last of poems that was assessed on my creative writing degree course. It's the one that was best received, although I'm not sure why. When submitting it, I honestly said to myself, "This is pretentious bollocks."

When I wrote this, I took a different approach to the other poems I've shared already. They started as poems and ended as poems. This one started as a passage of prose. I just did a Hemingway and opened a vein and bled onto the page. Well, the laptop's keys. Then I took that prose and chopped it up into lines with six syllables in each, regardless of where the sentences started and ended. Some lines had punctuation at the end and some didn't. I paid no attention to that. I was more concerned with syllables and rhythm.

This poem looks like it's brought up all the feels. In reality, it hasn't. I just brain-dumped and this is what came out. There's not nearly as much emotion as you would think and I'm not a particular fan of it. Any constructive criticism I received for this was taken on board and it was easy to do that because I feel detached from this poem, unlike the previously shared one which was a sonnet about Stromboli. I felt very emotionally invested in that because it was about an experience I had that I hold close to my heart.

I didn't even give this a title until two minutes before submission. I called it "Who Struck The Match?" I had the idea that because this was about a candle (a play on the "old flame" expression) and the other poem I wrote was about a volcano, the through-line was fire and I could make a pamphlet out of them poems about fire, but to be honest, I don't care about this one enough to run with the idea. 

Isn't it ironic that the one I spent the least time on and was the least invested in, was technically the best and the most well-received by the university? Poetry is weird.

Who Struck The Match?

My perfect shape is gone,
No definition left.
All I could do was burn
but he questioned why and
snuffed me out before I
could damage myself more.
Not realising that
he was the one who lit
me up in the first place.

He examines my left-
over wax, wishing I
was still the same bright light.
His ego warm from fanning
flame, enjoyed the soft scent,
soothed by my glow. But then
extinguished. Cold water
on the wick, the warmth gone.
I smoked into his eyes.

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