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The Poetry of Praise

My collection of writers’ notebooks preserves not only my own scribblings but also the blackboard-perfect handwriting of my mother, the self-assured script of her father, the thrillingly chaotic lines of a 95-year-old artist; and the notes of other writers whose struggling penmanship betrays their advanced age. This weekend, while nosing around in search of a writing prompt that I could use in an upcoming workshop, I pulled out a notebook that I thought was my own and opened it to find somebody else’s ramblings—semi-coherent thoughts, often regretful, sprawling across the page and trailing off or ending, abruptly, in midsentence, only to repeat themselves a few pages later. I sighed, put the notebook away, and opened another—whereupon I encountered a similar morass, only this time the notebook was mine. Some of the paragraphs made sense, and some didn’t.

Now I ask you: What could possibly explain the following list? There is no title, nothing to suggest what the list is about. It matters because . . but we’ll get to that in a minute. Any ideas?

1)    Lightbulbs.

2)    Asphalt

3)    Aspirin

4)    Wing nuts

5)    Shopping

6)    Waiting

7)    Humming

8)    Thoughts at 2 a.m.

9)    Movie credits

10) Instructions for household appliances

11) Lint

12) Dish drainers

On the page that follows, I found this:

INSTRUCTIONS FOR HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES

First of all, who reads them?

Not if I can help it!

Next, do we keep the darn booklet

Or throw it out?

Once gone, it will be needed.

This is a given.

So, keep it.

Stuff it in a drawer.

The booklets pile up.

The toaster breaks. You throw it out.

The booklet remains.

Instructions, in every language:

Japanese, Mandarin, Swahili.

The appliances of the world want us to know them.

How they work.

How they think.

What they desire.

When I’m too hot, they say, unplug me.

 When I’m silent, push this button here

And I will buzz,

Hum,

Come to life and be your faithful servant.

Treat me right.

Dust me, polish me, oil me.

Change my batteries.

Love me, keep me in your pocket.

Stroke me.

Think of me as your lover, your teacher,

Mother, brother, best friend.

One day I will be obsolete.

It’s sad, yes, I know.

But then, I will rise again

As a collectible on Etsy,

Cherished and enshrined by discerning people.

Once again, I am chic!

If you look inside me,

What do you see?

Very few people do—look, that is.

The lack of curiosity is shocking.

People don’t want to know.

They just want me to be:

Functional and perfect

Obedient,

And mysterious.

Whatever the logic behind the mysterious list, it yielded something, a piece of writing. It was productive. It didn’t turn me into a poet, but it did force me out of my habitual way of thinking, and that’s a good thing. Somehow I was able to spin a series of playful lines with barely a crossed-out word or a second thought. I probably did so in a timed 10-minute exercise. So the untitled list proved useful. I’d like to use it again. But I need clarification. Were we, perhaps, to write a poem about something extremely mundane (aspirin, asphalt)? Something boring (waiting)? Something most people don’t bother to read (movie credits, instructions)? And if so, whatever for? Was it to challenge the idea that only poets write poetry and that the rest of us should keep whatever poetic thoughts we might have to ourselves?

Exercise: Make a list of overlooked and unappreciated objects--the humble, the useless, the dull, the prosaic—and write an ode to each one..