By Isabela Bernstein

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn’t shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don’t believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

— Simon Armitrage

As someone who identifies as a lover of the written arts, as a reader and a writer, I have never been proud to say the five not-so-magic words: poetry is not my thing. Of course, I greatly admire poets and their craft; I think it’s simply extraordinary how they find the balance between the rules of form and the beauty of breaking them – I certainly could never do that. I am fascinated by lyrical and poetic language, but usually – and ironically – I am far more allured to it in prose rather than in poetry. The simple truth is that most of the time, when I find a poem I really like, after the first thought – “It’s amazing how someone can actually write this – comes an immediate wish that there was just…more. I find myself hoping there are pages of backstories and motivations for each verse, which in a way misses the whole point. Because I feel that I am wired for prose, I don’t quite find myself seeking out poetry. However, sometimes I come across a piece that makes me hold my breath for just a second as I face the fact that it is just too uncanny to need a single word more – let alone lines or pages – and decide, with a quiet smile, that against all odds it has happened: I fell in love with a poem.

That was exactly what happened with Simon Armitrage’s strange love poem, “I am very bothered.” Despite my love for lyricism in prose, in poetry what usually allures me is the elegance of simplicity, and particularly what can be achieved with simple language – “I am very bothered”does precisely that. In the poem, the narrator recalls with regret a moment from his childhood when he pranked a classmate into burning themself and reflects on the meaning behind this action. In fourteen lines, Armitrage grapples with the universal feeling of being somewhere between slightly bothered and perpetually haunted by memories of childhood, when often we don’t quite understand the full meaning behind our actions, as cruel and insensitive they may be. The poet successfully plays with the facets of these memories, which can be so engraved in us while nevertheless emotionally distancing us from the reality of our actions due to all the time that has inevitably passed.

This contrast between memory and moment is a major facet of the piece, and it is illuminated in many instances and details of the language used in the poem. The title and opening line, “I am very bothered,” for example, does so subtly but efficiently. The narrator is recalling a cruel, hurtful act – that solely by its nature was very likely to have deeply hurt the addressee – but the word used is not very emotional or even especially regretful; bothered gives the reader an impression that the thing to be recalled is silly and unimportant rather than something truly serious and even violent, which only reflects how despite his rational understanding of how wrong it may have been, there isn’t too much emotional investment in feeling deeply regretful.

An aspect of the language that also reflects this factor is the very lyrical description of the fire and the burnt flesh in verses six and eight. The overall language of the poem is relatively simple and casual, but these specific lines seem to be flashier, aiming for a more figurative use of words. There is a very clear contrast between these lyrical, beautiful descriptions of “a naked lilac flame” and “unrivalled stench” and the actual painful – even ugly – things they actually represent. This gap between language and meaning reflects how the speaker, though regretful, does not seem to have an emotional reaction to the moment being recalled. Instead, he looks at it through the lens of memory, and the fact that he – intentionally – fails to describe the actual pain that exists within that moment shows a certain detachment and insensitivity towards what happened. He is aware of how wrong this action was, but consistently fails to represent them as painful; instead, he seems to think that to his very cruelty there was something beautiful, and – as it is revealed in the last verse – even romantic.

Another noticeable aspect is the relationship established by the poem between the burn marks and wedding rings, a symbolism that manages to illustrate this seeming detachment on the narrator’s part. In line ten, he draws a literal connection between the two, and line eleven proceeds to reveal something essential that is shared: just like what a wedding ring aims to symbolize, the marks will last for eternity. The irony of this is clear: while the rings are a physical representation of marriage, which is characterized by romance, love, and – ideally – respect, the burnt skin is a perpetual reminder to the addressee of how utterly cruel the speaker has been, something that could be a very literal symbol of exactly why they would not want to be with him.

Nevertheless, the narrator’s attitude towards this only further reinforces the way he sees something romantic about what he did. He draws a connection between the mark and the ring that, along with the language used, seems to reflect how he is not exactly terribly sorry for what was done. Instead of genuinely apologetic, he subtly appears to be making excuses. Despite opening the last stanza with “Don’t believe me, please,” the entire poem reads like a tenuous, well-constructed build-up to the finishing line which, ultimately, is an excuse for his probably inexcusable prank. He attributes what he did only to his romantic feelings, and seemingly portrays what he did as something that fits into the old narrative of “boys show they like girls by annoying them.” There is still some clear awareness about the wrongfulness of his action, but, as illuminated by the contrast between lyrical beauty and physical pain, as well as by the romanticism attributed to the mark of something terrible, this awareness does not seem to extend itself much beyond an eventual, slightly annoying feeling of being bothered; his regret seems utterly unapologetic.

When it comes to its form, to me the poem seems to hold enough similarities with a sonnet structure to be considered one – though there are inevitably a number of factors that drift away from tradition. There are the standard fourteen lines, which are unconventionally separated into three different stanzas with an irregular number of verses in each. Interestingly, however, the stanzas seem to separate the story of the poem into three parts that resemble the narrative structure of a sonnet: between the first stanza and the second, there is a shift characterized by the unexpected revelation of the iniquity of the action which bothers the narrator, and between the second and the third there is a turn when the true meaning of such action is revealed to the reader, which feels familiar to the effect of a couplet in a sonnet.

In Amitrage’s poem, the structure so characteristic to a romantic style also works to build the interesting contrast between the message and the way in which it is being told. The narrator finds romance within a bad thing he did and tells the story in a way that feels like his wrongdoings are a build-up towards what is ultimately a love confession. This reinforces the gap between the way he perceives a memory and the way things actually happened. The fact that the narrator structures his story in such a romantic style–such as is appropriate to a sonnet– therefore successfully makes even more clear how detached he may be from the true meaning held by the moment he recalls.

Despite the similarities, there are still several characteristics in the poem that stray away from the sonnet. Noticeably, the rhyming scheme is irregular and at first glance might even seem nonexistent. Lines don’t end with rhyming words and only eventually have them hidden within the middle, but, when we read the poem – especially out loud – it is undeniable that Armitrage is up to something. He uses words that don’t traditionally rhyme but that either sound similar or have a similar rhythm – such as “played” and “handled” – to create a consistent pulse throughout the poem. This concept works very harmoniously with the idea of the piece, as the lack of steady rhymes helps it feel casual and the built-up rhythm feels familiar. The combination of the two makes the piece feel personal, like a story you are being told, which helps create the effect of the speaker’s action not being such a significant thing, but instead just a childhood memory with an unusual punchline.

In general, the way Armitrage plays with the form of the poem helps solidify his intentions with the meaning of its content. He utilizes aspects of the sonnet that are helpful for the message – like the ironic love story structure – while letting go of others – such as the rhyming scheme – to create something that feels more harmonious with the casual tone he is going for. This leads to a subversion of the traditional style that is gracefully appropriate for the strangeness of a love confession told through the recalling of a cruel and childish prank.

Ultimately, what is so alluring about “I am very bothered” is that it feels inherently familiar. We know close to nothing about the narrator, but Armitrage creates a very clear voice and attitude for him that very much makes the overall poem feel like a story being told by an old friend. To me, it seems that the charm of the poem comes from the fact that the overall theme feels very universal. Everyone has memories from childhood that feel silly or embarrassing or regretful, which is exactly why it is impossible not to recognize something of yourself in the narrator’s detached recalling, not despite the fact that his experience is very extreme in comparison, but exactly because of it. We feel allowed to laugh at it because of the humor in the piece, and simultaneously we have the peace of knowing none of the embarrassing things we did as kids are nearly as bad as what the speaker did. It is a natural thing for anyone not only to feel bothered by things they have done, as he puts it, but also to feel, as the years go by and we change, that the person who did such regretful things is no longer who we are. There is something utterly human in the narrator’s detachment from his memory – even if it is not exactly the most honorable thing about humanity, it feels very fresh, real, and inevitably recognizable.

It’s true: poetry is not exactly my thing. Usually, when I find a poem I really like, I almost immediately wish that there were lines and pages on backstories and motivations, because in essence I am wired for prose. On some rare lucky days, however, I come across a piece like the strange love poem – that is somehow also strangely lovely –  “I am very bothered.” With only fourteen verses, Armitrage creates a story and a narrator so disturbing and yet so human and so refreshingly layered that there is simply no way for me to wish there was more; everything I could ever need to know about this characters and their story is in fourteen lines. With its perfectly architected simplicity, ironic storytelling, and unapologetic humanity, in every read “I am very bothered” makes me hold my breath for just a second as I face with a quiet smile the fact that, against all odds, it has happened: maybe poetry could be my thing after all.