The Poem I Recommend If You Don't Think You Like Poetry
"I had my first nightmare about dangling by an umbilical cord from a white sky above a white boat floating in blood." - Zachary Schomburg, "1978"
Nazis unwelcome: here’s my post about moving this blog off of Substack soon. I might put this stinger on every post until then to try to irritate Nazi Sympathizer Hamish McKenzie. I might forget/get bored and stop. Not today though!
Cotton Xenomorph’s “Cryptids and Climate Change” issue continues, with “When the Creature Comes” by Gina Thayer and two poems by Steph Sorensen crewing our literary Nostromo.
It’s National Poetry Month, and since a huge part of My Whole Deal is believing more people would like poetry if the US taught it differently in high schools, I’m gonna try to get you to like a poem on the blog. Today, let’s talk about the poem (from the book of poetry) that I recommend to people who only associate poetry with some ancient stuffy high school English teacher (non-cool division) quoting Alexander Pope.
That’s right, we’re close reading “The Monster Hour” by Zachary Schomburg.
(Feel I should state up front that you, reading this blog, might already like poetry. My imagined audience for this blog is “other writers, whom I am trying to impress,” “my wife and friends, whom I am trying to impress and make laugh,” and “my parents, whom I am trying to impress and convince my career is cool and worthwhile.” Wherever you personally fall on that spectrum, consider this column an invite to either learn what I think is cool about a poem, or to celebrate anew a poem you already liked.)
Here’s a photo of the poem as it appears in a book held under a kitchen light. Should the photo have less shadow in it? Did you not see the eclipse two days ago? We’re into shadows rn.
In lieu of alt text, I’ll type below.
“The Monster Hour”
On the Monster Hour, there was this monster that used to come out and try to kill everybody in the audience. No one expected it, not even the producers who were told by monster he would play a few blues tunes on the piano. The monster apologized after each show and asked for another chance. I’m planning on telling a few jokes this time he would say. But time after time he’d break his word and try to kill everybody. The producers finally replaced him with a gorilla dressed in people clothes that came out and played a Wurlitzer, but they never changed the name of the show. It was always the Monster Hour. I don’t think anybody understood then what a monster really was.
Cool, right? As we say on The Line Break, What a Poem! In fact, I read this on The Line Break in 2020 and 100000000% do not remember what we said about it! Also I just realized this Tuesday night, I’ve been traveling for the eclipse and definitely do not have the time or desire to listen back to the way my own voice sounded in 2020. So my memory’s not getting jogged. I do remember Zach listening and telling me he liked it, which felt great because it was maybe the first time a poet had said they listened? It’s hard to remember 2020, as anyone who lived through it can attest. Anyway!
Music Image Metaphor
Don’t give into the casuals’ temptation that there’s no music in prose poetry. There’s a distinct tone to this poem, one I imagine in a black-and-white room with Old Hollywood dramatic lighting, speaking with a deep-voiced wistfulness. It’s a distinct radio storyteller’s voice, although it’s probably a radio storyteller’s voice as filtered through either Tom Waits or Saddle Creek Records, pick your poison. Depending on the intrusiveness of your writing software, you might notice the omission or use of “that:” “…there was this monster that used to come out…” as opposed to the more overtly folksy “that was this monster used to come out…” or the more conversational “…who were told by the monster he would play a few blues tunes…” instead of the more clinical “…who were told by the monster that he would play a few blues tunes…” or the most adjectival “…replaced him with a gorilla dressed in people clothes that came out…” instead of the more rocks-in-your-mouth explanatory “…replaced him with a gorilla that dressed in people clothes and who came out…” Tone is never just one thing, it’s a series of subtle choices that add up to a consistent whole.
The specificity of “play a few blues tunes” and “gorilla dressed in people clothes…played a Wurlitzer.” The hilarious repetition of “try to kill everybody” (“time after time!” People couldn’t get enough of almost being killed! The tickets were selling like heated cakes!) The images absolutely make this poem. You cannot have surrealism without specificity.
The metaphor is that the monster is capitalism. The Monster should own the name the Monster Hour, come on.
The Prose Poem
Personally, I like short stories that read like poems and poems that read like short stories. I do think there’s an “I know it when I see it” difference to the two—poems tend toward a single feeling, stories a single narrative, to be facile—but I like the blurred edges of genre.
If that’s not your thing, it’s cool that you’ve gotten this far in the column.
A Quick Unscientific Note On Influence
A lot of people in workshop tried to write like this after reading Zach’s book. Me included. A lot of people sent in poems to the college lit mag that were pale, toothless impressions of writing like this. Only two people in workshop succeeded in wearing a Zachary Schomburg influence on their sleeve. One didn’t write poetry beyond graduation (that I know of). The other has a book you can buy right here.
Notice that I am not either of these people. Personally, I recommend enjoying Zach’s work, and not trying to write like him. It’s harder to do well than it might look.
The Line Break Trilogy of Questions
Why this poem? Proems—the opening poem in a book—are instructive. Not every poem in this book are prose poems, but it’s kind of an invitation to let your hair down. Take it easy, we’re just talking here, we’re not even worried about punctuation. Plus, with the aforementioned radio storyteller tone, it really does feel like the opening band has played a cover we all loved 20 years ago but forgot we listened to, and now we’re all united in a good mood. My homie Eddie of Big Dopes does this with The New Radicals’ “You Only Get What You Give” (which you might remember from NOW That’s What I Call Music Volume 2) and it RULES.
What’s the move? What particular line or device resonates with you most? As a child of the 2000s emo era, “I don’t think anybody understood then what a monster really was” sounds like something I’d’ve said on stage at some point. Probably in a song whose lyrics were inspired by Remember The Titans. Mostly, I find myself wondering “does Zach ‘get away’ with that line?” and deciding the answer is yes, over and over. So my real move for this poem is starting your book with “On the Monster Hour, there was this monster that used to come out and try to kill everybody in the audience.” There is a lot you have to live up to with the promise of that line, and it’s not (necessarily) more gore or more jokes. It’s a hilarious image, but you don’t want the poems to only be funny, especially since a monster trying to kill everybody is the kind of ostentatious over-the-top that will become grating if you let it. It’s the kind of opening line you chuckle at, go “alright, I’m with you, keep going” and trust the poet’s got something in store for you.
What’s going on beyond the page? What does this poem do for you before and after you read it? Before I past-tense read this poem for the first time, I didn’t know you could write poems this playful. Though Zach’s my favorite of heavy-scare-quotes “Poets Who Write Like This,” there’s also James Tate, Mathias Svalina, Heather Christle, Adrian Sobol, Brandon O’Brien, Jared Beloff, and to an extent Elizabeth Willis, Aase Berg, Joshua Beckman, and a thousand others I either don’t know or am forgetting. Before I present-tense read this poem now, I have the same feeling I do when I’ve had the right amount of THC and tacos and am about to watch Point Break. I am about to read The Man Suit.
Buy this book and all of Zach’s other books.
Sorry you got an email,
Chris