OctPoWriMo Day 11. The Friendly Monsters’ Guide to My Street

OctPoWriMo Day 11. Don’t Look Her in the Eye

When writing poetry, we employ many self-imposed constraints. Poetic forms each have their own constraints: syllables per line, stresses and feet per line, rhyme scheme, repetitions, etc. In a lipogram the constraint is to not use a letter through the whole poem, or to only use one vowel. We use constraints to decide how we’re going to break our lines: enjambment or end stops. We use constraints to decide how we’ll break our stanzas: couplets, tercets, quatrains, etc.

Any rule or constraint we make up for ourselves while writing or revising a poem is a way of reframing how we think about a topic. The poet Bernadette Mayer made a huge list she calls writing experiments. (You may have to sign up for ModPo to view this, but it’s free and I highly recommend it).

Example Poem: “Mosters I’ve Met” by Shel Silverstein from Poems Dead and Undead(Aal)

Monsters I’ve Met

I met a ghost, but he didn’t want my head,
He only wanted to know the way to Denver.
I met a devil, but he didn’t want my soul,
He only wanted to borrow my bike awhile.
I met a vampire, but he didn’t want my blood,
He only wanted tow nickles for a dime.
I keep meeting all the right people—
At all the wrong times.

~Shel Silverstein

Prompt: Who are the monsters in your neighborhood? The monsters that you meet, while you’re walking down the street each day? What mundane things might these monsters do, or ask you for?

Possible form: Couplets (stanzas of two lines)-Write a poem in couplets where the first line is that of expectation and the second line is what actually happened. Or the first line is the human voice and the second is the response of a monster.

~

[An important note before you read: This poem documents patterns I encounter. Critiquing behavior isn’t hating a category of people. If the poem isn’t for you, that’s okay. Please don’t label lived safety practices as hatred. Fear ≠ hatred. The piece maps micro-behaviours that accumulate/escalate risk. If the shoe doesn’t fit, there’s no need to wear it. By the way, it is not just a poem, I also mentally file this under unwritten routine.]

The Friendly Monsters’ Guide to My Street

At the gate, the Gatekeeper tips his cap—asks my flat number,

then suggests the lift is “safer” if we ride together.

At the tea shop, the Complimenter says I look “less tired,”

then wonders if I stay alone—“just asking, be inspired.”

At the bus stop, the Whistler hums a harmless tune,

then shifts closer, asking what time I’m back “by noon?”

In the pharmacy, the Advice-Giver points out stronger pills,

then offers “home delivery”—“what’s your door? For scrips and bills.”

On the stairwell, the Helper reaches for my bags,

then lingers by my landing, “keys—heavy?” he nags.

In the co-working, the Mentor likes my grit,

then asks for my number “in case a meeting splits.”

On the metro, the Space-Saver makes an inch,

then pockets back the inch, “crowds—such a pinch.”

At the crossing, the Guide waves me through,

then walks the same direction, “shortcut?” he coos.

In the elevator, the Small Talker talks of rain,

then asks which floor again, and waits a beat—“same.”

On the lane, the Neighbor remembers my name,

then forgets his own turn and matches my pace, unashamed.

In the lobby, the Caretaker checks IDs with flair,

then asks for one more photo, “for safety—if you care.”

On the balcony, the Surveyor loves my views,

then says it’s “only two minutes”—clipboard, shoes.

At the screen, the Colleague writes “just ping,”

then “keep camera off or on?”—either way, a ring.

On the doorstep, the Technician asks to check the line,

then wedges the door with his boot—“just a second, sign.”

On the landing, the Neighbor “helps” to find my key,

then learns which door is mine and waits a beat with me.

In the cab, the Driver says the shortcut saves some time,
then “misses” my pin and circles—locks click in rhyme.

On the metro, a stranger’s grip “accidentally” finds my wrist,

then doesn’t move at the next stop—or the next on the list.

At midnight, the Streetlight flickers, meaning nothing,

then everything—footsteps flatten into breathing.

If anyone asks, I met monsters doing favors:

showing the way, sharing tips, measuring my layers.

They live where the pavement meets polite,

where the ask is small, and the echo is night.

I log the exits; I count the floors steady;
I keep my keys loud; I keep my no ready.

~ Oizys.