The party rotted like a bowl of fruit
Abandoned in a painter’s studio.
The talk had soured, the spinal chords had slouched
Collapsing on themselves, dissolving in the couch,
The cups filled slower than they had before,
And slowly drained, more hesitantly poured
And every sip, which used to loosen tongues, 
Now was a glue that made them tighten up. 
The gathering, ostensibly begun
To make of many partygoers, one, 
Sent most of them alone off at the end
More likely to have lost than made a friend. 

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Explanation

I wrote this when I was reading The Recognitions by William Gaddis. I prefer it to his other long book, JR. Perhaps the latter gets better in the back half, but I wasn’t willing to check for another 400 pages.

The Recognitions, however, is a subtle book. Some of it is about a painter who makes his way through a dishonest and withered New York art scene. So I thought of writing a still life with, not decaying plants, but decaying people.

I am actually quite proud of this poem. It is a lucid description of a scene with nearly perfect iambic pentameter and clean slant rhymed pairs. Sorry to toot my own horn but this is one of my favourites that I’ve sent you. I guess I don’t need to explain this one for too long: it stands on its own.

Read The Recognitions with me, if you’re in need of a challenge. I still have about 300 pages to go—this letter, I suppose, is my commitment to finishing it.

Have a good week.