Poetry month - Day Twenty-five

Five more to go

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on the “Proust Questionnaire.” You could choose to answer the whole questionnaire, and then write a poem based on your answers, answer just a few, or just write a poem that’s based on the questions. You could even write a poem in the form of an entirely new Proust Questionnaire.

You can read here a 35-question version of the questionnaire.

Just before the day runs out, I am here with my poem answering the question: “What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?”

Busy day, hard question. I’ll come back tomorrow with a small follow-up poem.

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I’m a pleaser baby, so why don’t you like me?

There were no great tensions at home
when I was a child, no grudges either
dragging us down to the lowest levels,
no, things were quite normal.

Mamma, a mezzo-soprano on a mission
to keep things levelled, always fretting
over the neighbours’ esteem kept on
saying, please behave, don’t do this,
don’t do that, to which I always replied,
OK mamma, if you say so.

Daddy, a bit more diplomatic than her,
having his way of making suggestions
rather than pointing the finger, he would
come with a smooth baritone voice I could
not resist and say, you should do this, me
saying, OK daddy, if you like me to.

First time things went downhill I was in
primary, my teacher—she could have been
a nun if not for her infatuation with her
manicure—bellowing like a real contralto,
don’t you dare speak to me like this, and I
could only utter, Yes madam.

At times things got pretty intense, making
friends was quite a thrill, but that girl
with her pretty face was on a higher level,
the lead soprano always bitching at me,
if you want to be my friend don’t be like this,
and I was like, OK, whatever you please.

Things spiced up when the long-awaited
boyfriend came later on, for he was young
and begging for love, and I was dazzled
when he sang to me in his tenor’s voice,
I so wanna do this to you, and I somewhat
unsure said, sure, if that makes you happy.

I kept the same tempo until the final
knock down—getting a job was the real
thing, but my boss was out of this world,
a proper bass, who smoked cigars and said
in a thick voice, You’ll do it like this, and I
replied every time, OK, you’re the boss.

And when my true love came to me
and asked, why don’t you, for a change,
be yourself? I asked him back, 	how
am I supposed to do this?		

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