Poem of the Week: 9.5.24
"Xerophyte Spread"
XEROPHYTE SPREAD
by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira
("Xerophyte Spread" text version)
In some cases, an oasis may be formed
when faulting and climatic conditions
create a depression in an arid region,
allowing underground water to seep.
In some cases, an oasis can be formed
when faulting and seeping conditions
create a depression in an arid seep,
allowing underground seep to sleep.
In some cases, an oasis could seep
when faulting and sleeping conditions
create a depression in an arid sleep.
Seeping underground, sleep to weep.
In some seeping, an oasis should sleep
when faulting and weeping conditions.
Seep a depression in an arid weep,
sleeping underground weep to grow.
Seeping sleeping, an oasis would weep.
When faulting and weeping seeps,
sleep a seep in an arid growing.
Weep underground. Grow to body.
Sleeping weep, a body will grow
when seeping and growing sleeps.
Weep a sleep in a seeping body,
grow underground to body oasis.
I started with a line and made up the rules.
Does this poem scream nothing better to do? I hope it doesn’t too loudly. When I sat down to write yesterday, all I could come up with was a cheesy line describing a feeling of rejuvenation:
The desert of my body has become an oasis
That’s all I had. I stared and stared and stared at the line, hoping it would extend itself to a more sophisticated poem. It did not.
When this time of writer’s block hits—an idea without shape—I try to impose one on it arbitrarily. This time, I tried an experimental form constrained by a series of word modifications that gradually “grew” in alteration and “spread” throughout the poem. This was the rule I made for myself:
Repetition —> insertion/deletion —> rhyme —> new word same syllable
You can trace this “spread” in the last word of the first stanza. “Seep” is repeated, then transformed into “sleep” by inserting a letter. “Sleep” rhymes with “weep,” which then became “grow” to retain the syllable but morph into a new word. I mimicked this in different iterations, trying to hold onto a bit of literal sense with different tenses of a word or different punctuation through each line.
A little whacky? Sure. A successful experiment? A fun one for me, so sure again. Experiments usually come at a cost—focusing too much on form (color, shape, appearance) can weaken the literal foundation (the words and their meanings). Balance is the goal.
The final product, “Xerophyte Spread,” plays with a color gradient, trying to show through the shifting shades how the changing words effect the poem overall. What begins as a stanza in a standard font color ends in a variegated stanza of greens and blue “spread” through the starting black.
Let me know your thoughts—is the experience of reading with color different than without? Is there any sense in the experimental wordplay? Is the oasis of your body blooming or needing a sip?
Hydratingly, Ricky