trains

Metafiction is a narrative technique and a genre of fiction, wherein a fictional work (novel, film, play, poem, etc.) self-consciously draws attention to being a work of imagination, rather than a work of non-fiction. Metafiction poses critical questions about the relation between fiction and reality, usually by applying irony and self-reflection. As a genre, metafiction is comparable to presentational theatre, which continually reminds the audience that they are viewing a play; metafiction continually reminds the reader to be aware that he or she is reading a fictional work. [Continue reading HERE] It became prominent in the 1960s with the publication of such novels as Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.

Instead of making this idea seem very difficult to contemplate, I hope that we can have some fun with it. Take a good look at the means by which we write poetry (and why we do it) and approach it from a slightly different angle. Truth be told, anything goes.

Poem

Fictional Poem by me written earlier today at the train station

 

That’s me there

sitting on the bench

at the railway station

 

except of course it isn’t

because i’m here

writing this

 

that me there though

the one waiting for the train

pen in hand

 

writing

 

a poem

 

is not real

 

people pace back and forth

waiting but moving

 

they’re not real either

 

the train on the opposite platform

hums and then sidles its way outward

 

but in reality

does not

 

it’s not real

 

but

 

if it is going outward

am i heading inward?

 

into the heart of it?

 

the skeletal bones of this

poetic reflection?

 

i see my imagined pen

move across the paper

that is not

and i imagine it

appearing on this blog

 

in some future moment

 

like now

 

that’s me there

getting on the train

 

to here

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

18 responses to “trains

  1. I don’t know exactly why, but this feels like the most real and deeply touching poem I’ve read in quite a while. So much so that I don’t want to close this page for fear of losing this feeling … of knowing something somewhere is real, despite you telling me it isn’t.

  2. If art is a mirror held up to nature, the nature of poetry as you write here is the inward reflection of the outer world. Getting to the skeletal bones of that interior, as you put it — therein lies the art of the making. Well put.

  3. You reeled me in with the notebook evidence of the poetry, only to tell me I had imagined it all.. Touche!

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