Poem 78 Editing

One of the greater joys of being a poet is using words in their many forms junxtaposed for greater meaning. It’s a bit of a thrill honestly. There are no greater hacks to language than the multiplicity of words (that’s the new buzz word these days, hacks, bit of a silly concept really).

Poem 78, Post, is a study in the three uses of post: to post, the object Post-It, and the past of a moment, post. There is also a sense of one’s post as in the space the narrator occupies in the room. That one is less obvious, but a bonus.
If this kind of poem tickles your fancy there are a few things to remember when writing a multiplicity poem:
1. Don’t make it cheesey. Pick a genuine subject and focus around a word second. If you are trying to write a poem about a word, it will be just that. This poem is made better by its use of the word post, but it is still about something else.
2. At least three. I like the number three, like a triangle it is the strongest geometric shape. If you have just two uses then you might want to reconsider the poem as a multiplicity. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of a pun, but there’s no reason to write a whole poem about it, limericks have fallen from favor and are rarely art.
3. It’s still a poem. It still needs Truth, a norm, a moment, a heartline, all of those things we’ve been talking about this whole time. If you aren’t including them, you might want to hold off and figure out what to write first. See bullet point 1.
Poetry is so much more than just words. But sometimes the multiplicity of a word can drive a little life into the piece. Remember to always make it meaningful, with a bigger picture, poetic conventions of some sort, and of course two uses of a word is hardly a revolution.
Be a master of language, in that way you will be a master of your own tongue, and your pen. Boyfriend bought me an old school dictionary and thesaurus and I highly recommend thumbing through a paper version, there are so much more inspiring connections to be made… and of course no advertisements.

Poem 78 Revised

I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging calmly to lamp shades, docked to doorknobs
And when I collected them all in a pile I signed
Imagining all summer where they might be hidden
where you might tuck them away, what color pens
you would choose to scribe over and over
I love you I love you I love
A quiet reflection, with each smoothed in my hands
fumbling with the frailty of love, paper love lingers
smooth to the touch like egg shells; impossibly cool.
Love is the prettiest word to behold on a post-it. 

Sad to see them bundled together, more self piteous than sad.
I love you I love you I love… afternoons post, opening drawers;
emptying boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its
Held quite still, clutching the confetti between my fingers,
this paper, this love, hinged on hangers, crumpled in corners
boarded in book ends: not infinite, not over yet.

Poem 78


I can remember coming home to post-it notes
clinging precariously to lamp shades, grasping at doorknobs.
And when I had collected them all in a pile I sighed, 
for I had been wondering about them all summer,
wondering where you might hide them, what color pens you would 
choose to inscribe over and over: I love you I love you I love.
It was a sad moment. I collected each one in my fingers, felt the frailty of love.
Paper love letters smooth in my fingers like eggshells, but warmer, paper
warms faster than eggshells; paper can be re-perfected. Love is the prettiest word to
behold on a post-it. I nearly wept to see them all there crooked together.
Sad to have found them. More self piteous than sad.
I love you I love you I love… those afternoons post, opening drawers;
unpacking boxes, rearranging shoes harboring hideaway post-its. Lines 
of a sonnet could be fleshed out there, in the terror of discovering the Very. Last. One.
I held quite still. Clutched the paper between my fingers. This paper; this love
hiding behind hangers and book ends, on the underside of tables. Not infinite, not over yet.