My Life By Lyn Hejinian

"All that is nearly incommunicable to my friends. Velocity and throat verisimilitude. Were we seeing a pattern or merely an appearance of small white sailboats on the bay, floating at such a distance from the hill that they appeared to be making no progress. And for once to a country that did not speak another language." 

An excerpt from My Life by Lyn Hejinian. 

I find that this type of structure for a poem is hard to read, as it was really easy for me to lose my place. Not just because of how long the lines were, or the fact that it was block quote style but because there was no connection for me between each sentence. However, I did like how clearly I could picture most of the things she was saying as there was a lot of imagery in the sentences, but that was taken away from every time a new image was forced into my head with each new sentence. I feel like I got whip-lash from reading this poem because I was being pulled in so many directions. I still feel like there's something that does make it narrative, I just can't tell what it is. It seemed to me like reading a shopping list, because all the items are separate from each other but there is one common thing that links them all together even if it is not obvious at the beginning what that might be. 

Here's a poem I've written that tries to encompass some of the feelings I got from reading My Life.  It's a rough draft.

In my living room there is a white pot with grass sticking up from all angles. It's been filled with dirt, as if to encourage the little plant to continue to live. I had a bagel for breakfast, it reminds me of camping and drunk hammocks. And of course Christmas time, with a damaged box and a gift for us both. My hands feel like ice, and are white like the snow. I have a surprise for you, gourmet jelly beans. Yes they're a real thing. Yes I know you like them, that's why they're for you. Your Mom is so electronically challenged that we can't go skating until she learns how to use a tv. So I wait to skate. No matter what I do, I'm always cold. When I was little, my Mom took me sledding, and when we went down the biggest hill she screamed and we never went sledding together again. We have pictures. I don't understand how it can be so grey outside and still blind me so much that my brain aches. It's like a cruel joke. I just want raspberries and frozen yoghurt. 

When I was writing my poem, I  tried to go for the same random list of thoughts that Lyn did, but I wanted mine to have more of a narrative feel so it's easier to see how they're connected. I'm not sure if I achieved what I was going for, but then again, it's just a draft.