Some years ago I came across the American poet C.K Williams. I was intrigued by the impossibly long lines of his verses. They allowed for an extraordinary intensity of concentration, creating the sense of almost obsessive soliloquy on the part of the writer.
Having always favoured (although not always used) very short lines in my own poetry, I wanted to see what would happen if I just let the line run. The result was, as narrative, a curious tale of short-term lovers, &, structurally, the long lines & a rhyme scheme.
The poem is a one-off; Iíve never used the long, running line since. Although this piece wrote itself fairly swiftly & I felt comfortable with the strange form at the time, ever since writing it Iíve become uneasy if a line extends too far. Nearly all my final revision now comprises shortening verses, trimming them back.
THE THIRTEENTH LETTER
Long after the time when memory selected, gilded, carefully recomposed
the story so that single incidents stood out, hard edged
and bright, like playing cards thrown down face up, a truth remains.
He told it like it was, as he recalled ñ always stressed the finite, always closed
each of those early letters with some bland equivocation, hedged
about with decoration ñ verbal curlicues, the kind of style that gains
you time and space. And then they met, breathing clichÈs. And the river
rolled its cargo past: the lovers in slow-turning punts, half naked sybarites
in motorboats, the self-adoring swimmers ñ indolence and flesh, the heat curtain
shimmering. They couldnít meet each otherís eyes ñ he, the Indian giver
in disguise, she, the young pretender, bold then diffident. Finally, the rites
exhausted, ruefully they laughed and the old world turned to steam. Certain
only of desire, they crossed the bridge and swam the cloudy streets, all heartbeat
and thirst, wordless, like creatures chased by fire. Then, route
unremembered, they are in her tiny room. Music pulses and the sun implodes.
Night tumbles past. Sometimes they rest, root still, locked tight. Sometimes street
shadows shift in the headlights of a car. Then dawn reveals them, naked, mute,
with all their languages discharged. Smiling, distant, they begin the closing of the roads.
