Writers on Writing

Why I Don't Write Autobiographical Poems

 

Vengeance doesn't work in a poem,

nor do digs at anatomical parts

or mean-spirited, see-what-I-mean, anecdotal jibes.

For example. you write an epic tirade against "Bob."

Who is Bob to me, the reader?

The fact that he lied, cheated, was lousy in bed,

that doesn't make Bob special, nor does your
problem with Bob make me feel
different about my life.

However, speak to me of Bob's kitchen,

of its perfect, painted walls

of deep and shiny teal with high-gloss white

moldings, (he was into that Southwestern look),

of the way Bob's toast had to be cooked evenly on

both sides, and of Bob, himself, draped,

regally, in a raggedy old kimono,

dragging on a filthy, filterless cigarette, his hand

as graceful as a gazelle in slow-motion, the nervousness suspended, of how each word he spoke was

always articulated as neatly, separately,

yet as packed with juice as a champagne grape –
and I can begin to feel more impassioned.


And when, after several years of cohabitation,
he drops you as carelessly as he flicks

an ash, you allow me to be devastated.

 

by Mary Wallach