On writing a letter

This is a letter poem about how I don’t write letters. The recipient is Prof. Dean Rader, the man that asked me to write a letter. The core idea here is to play the game of performative contradiction. I describe exactly what I am doing, while denying doing so. There is some use of internal rhyming and questions, but the bulk of the poem is this game. The goal with the revision of this piece was to balance the playfulness with actual material and the core claim. As such, there was a lot of removing of lines. Another part removed had been added in earlier purely for putting on a performance in class, which I thought was out of place in this poem.

On Writing A Letter

Dear Dean, ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I don’t do letters. I just don’t. I have been asked to write you one, so I will. This is like having to bite my own nails off: The relief afterwards is so good. I am trying to write a letter. But my words are flying somewhere in my mind. They are roosting on my shoulders, can I please borrow a net? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I got it: the flying keys! Do you remember how Harry had to catch flying keys? That’s me. I am trying to catch the words but they keep flying away from me. They are my words. Why are they avoiding me? Am I the one who’s avoiding them? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Letters are hard. The tense in this is all over the place. Present and past, and future all at once. This is why I never liked letters. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It’s a feeling. Like when the stomach is queasy, the mind is uneasy, and the lungs are wheezy. Like squeezing your head through a tight gap or when you wake up in the middle of the night when you only wanted to take a nap. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even more, I cannot write a poem like this. There isn’t any alliteration, anaphora, apostrophe, or assonance in this. No fancy line breaks, no answers to life, no, no, no, nothing. I really did try. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the end, I can only say this: I don’t do letters.

Your word-hunting student, Ravneet

On Writing A Letter

Dear Dean, ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I don’t do letters. I just don’t. I have been asked to write you one, so I will. This is like having to bite my own nails off. Painful, excruciating. The relief afterwards is so good. I am trying to write a letter. But my words are flying somewhere in my mind. They are roosting on my shoulders, can I please borrow a net? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I got it: the flying keys! Do you remember how Harry had to catch flying keys? That’s me. I am trying to catch the words but they keep flying away from me. They are my words. Why are they avoiding me? Am I the one who’s avoiding them? ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Letters are hard. You told me to be vulnerable so… I will be reading this in class. Please don’t laugh. You’d be putting down a vulnerable man. Look at this. The tense in this is all over the place. Present and past, and future all at once. This is why I never liked letters. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I don’t know you know? I just don’t like them. It’s a feeling. Like when the stomach is queasy,the mind is uneasy, and the lungs are wheezy. Like squeezing your head through a tight gap. Like when you wake up in the middle of the night when you only wanted to take a nap. That’s how I feel about writing a letter. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even more, I cannot write a poem like this. There isn’t any alliteration, anaphora, apostrophe, or assonance in this. No fancy line breaks, no answers to life, no, no, no, nothing. I really did try. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the end, I can only say this: I don’t do letters.

Your word-hunting student, Ravneet