A monostich is a single line poem.
I thought the Beat Generation invented the monostich as some sort of gimmick. They did not. Marcus Valerius Martialis, known commonly as Martial, wrote some of the oldest on record in the First Century, CE. “Modern” monostich is attributed to Valery Bryusov, in 1894. But, yes, Ginsberg did write monostich, too.
The monostich form is a single line, with internal integrity — insomuch as nothing else is necessary to tell the story. Although, I’ve decided, it’s not poetry unless it feels like poetry. There seem to be few rules other than that. Sometimes they are titled; which some authors use to sneak in a second line. I consider this cheating.
Today, I was involved in a writing exercise where we wrote for three 20 minute sprints and then compared notes. I took the opportunity to crank out as many monostich poems as I could, just to exercise the writing muscle. Here are a few of my favorites. All untitled.
A single line, singing.
The gaiety of the drink, the remorse of the moment.
A single line, self-referential.
The smell of coffee and morning and soap on my skin, sending me dreaming, though just awoke.
Never, except that once, and only twice more, but never again.
Nature finds its way into my house on the feet of a dog.
The beauty of the candle is the flame that consumes it.
The little river flows by the road, a ditch, still proud of the light that dances on its surface.
The lake lays still as the sun sets fire to the trees on the opposite shore.
Dancing with myself, on trails far away.
A box on the counter, a present to be opened.
Many shoes by the door telling of the guests within.
A wall of darkness surrounds the fire, the roof has opened to the stars.
Cows don’t wonder if it’s a bad hair day.
Do you remember testing tubes, the warm glow, the drugstore?
My eyes swim and head dreams with allergic disengagement.
The screen door slams and rattles in a forgotten moment.
The smell of candy and soda in a 5 and Dime, long-since gone.
The tree yawned and stretched in the March wind.
Rabbits, investigating the world, nose down.
Burnt coffee, weak toast.
In closing, prematurely.
During the first writing sprint, our hosts (somehow, mysteriously) violated the Terms of Service. The video went black. The video feed soon came back, but the event inspired me to write the following.
And the poets of prose are gone, disappearing into the terms of service.
M. E.