Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision with Ellen ......Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of...

Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 1

Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision

with Ellen Bass

WEEK ONE HANDOUT

Contents

Tim Seibles, Color Key to Revisions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Tim Seibles, “Ode to Impatience” & “Come Home, Lady” Revision. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Ellen Bass, “The Small Country” and “Untranslatable” Revisions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Exercise 1. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Nancy Miller Gomez, “The hardest part of losing her mother during the Pandemic”. . . 11

Ellen Bass, “The World Has Need of You” Revisions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

Exercise 2. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Julie Murphy, “Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Lucille Clifton, “chemotherapy” Revisions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18

Patricia Smith, “Coo Coo Cachoo” Revisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

James Wright, “I Will Call It Hook” & “Hook” Revision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Tim Seibles, Revision Lesson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Appendix, Time Seibles, “Come Home, Lady” Revisions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35


NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.



The Small Country (1st draft transcribed from notebook, 6-16-14)

by Ellen Bass

There are words almost untranslatable from one language to from one time and place to

another. Torschlusspanik is familiar to me, but only the Germans can sum it up in one

word the fear with their country divided into east and west could come up the fear of gate

closing could come up with this fear of the gate closing, the feeling medieval peasants

had when the castle gates were closing for an onslaught by enemies, the fear that time is

running out and opportunities, as we age.

the fear as peasants rushed to make it back inside the city walls before they closed at

night, exposed to cold, wild animals, robbers.

or, in a more accepting mood, wabi-sabi, the Japanese way of finding beauty in the

imperfections, the wear and tear that accumulates over time—the green patina on copper,

the natural cycle of growth and decay.

There is the Scotch tartle, the hesitation when introducing someone whose name you’ve

forgotten

and the Czech Prozvonit, a word that means to call a mobile phone and let it ring once so

the other person will call back,

And cafune, Brazilian Portuguese—which is the act of tenderly running one’s fingers

through someone’s hair

And in French, Lappel du vide, the call of the void, the urge to jump from high places

(that doesn’t affect us all equally)

Ya’ aburnee, “you bury me,” the hope to die before someone so you don’t have to live

without them

But really, no But really, even when we talk in our common language, do we ever get to

the marrow of words? do we even suck suck out its grainy richness (tongue)?

Where is the word for the frozen brick of ice we call worry that is packed in the sawdust

of our hearts, or the particular frozen shards of that the that stab us when we think of

our children and all that could that are our particular worries for our children

what is the word for the smell of apricots inflating thickening the house air as you cook

boil up jam in early summer? or the word for the way you touched me last night as I

touched tongued you last night, as though my I had never real as though I had never

touched these the geography of your body a woman’s body, no previous knowledge of

the arrangement of parts, but instead was an exploring for the first explorer curious about


what I would encounter, each particular fold and hollow each slick surface and the

surprise of your like with no preconception of diagram.

And how, even touch itself, can not mean the same thing to bot of us—even in this

small country of our bed, even in this language with only the 2 native speakers—

I once made love with a man who told

Last night you told me you liked my eyebrows. You told me you’d never seen them

before. You were How struck you were that we’d lived together all these years

and you’d never seen my eyebrows.

You can What is the word that combines this freshness after so many years with the pity

of missing out for so many years? What is the word that says no matter how much time is

lost, the gates are always there are gates everywhere, gates in every opening and opening

and opening in every moment. More than we could possibly go through

The way though I gather the apricots each day

The way every leaf on the maple, every rose petal, every stone in the river, every kiss of

the hundreds of kisses we kissed even in just one night, is a gate.

Doorway to the Netherlands

Daughters of Benevolence misheard

How can we ever say what we feel?

We’re grateful even for the passing whiff, like driving at night with the windows down

and passing trees full of lemon blossoms.

[So I was fortunate here to have generated pretty much everything I’d need for this poem,

even though it’s messy. I want to encourage those of you who are naturally neat to

cultivate a tolerance for messiness in the beginning and even in the middle. It’s under-

rated. And you can see that I don’t yet know how the poem will begin or how it will end.

Both the beginning and the ending are embedded in the mess, indistinguishable]

_______________________________

Untranslatable (first title, 8-30-14, 2nd draft)

And really isn't it all untranslatable, unsayable. How we can never say what we feel? It's

only pointing and grunting. And we are grateful for even the slightest hint of

understanding. The way we are grateful for the scent of a flower, though we might wish

to climb inside like a bee...even though we're shut out. We are grateful even for the passing whiff, like driving at night with the windows down and passing trees full of

lemon blossoms.


Untranslatable [trying again]

There are words almost untranslatable.

Torschlusspanik is familiar to me, but only

the Germans could come up with this fear

of the gate closing, the rush to make it back inside

the city walls before night, exposed to cold, wild

animals, thieves, the fear that time is running out

as we get older.

Or, in a more accepting mood, wabi-sabi,

the Japanese way of finding beauty in the imperfections,

the signs of wear that accrue over time, the green patina on copper,

the oils of the body absorbed into wood, or the wearing away of stone

by all the feet that have climbed the stairs.

There’s the Yiddish ongapatchka, which even Jews

can’t agree on how to spell, which is a kind of over doneness,

ornateness, a room or a woman with too many tchotchkes.

There is the Scottish tartle, the hesitation

when introducing someone whose name you’ve forgotten

and the Czech prozvonit, a word that means to call a mobile phone

and let it ring once so the other person will call back

and cafune, Brazilian Portuguese,

which is the act of tenderly running one’s fingers through someone’s hair

and in French, l’appel du vide, the call of the void, the urge

to jump from high places, that doesn’t affect us all equally—

something I’ve never felt

ya’aburnee, you bury me, the hope to die before someone so you don’t have to live

without them

but even when we talk in our common language, do we ever get to the marrow of words?

suck out its grainy richness onto our tongues

what is the word for choosing to be happy

for the apples when they are still tight on the tree

where is the word for the brick of ice we call worry that is packed in the sawdust of our

hearts


or the particular frozen shards that are our particular worries for our children,

where is the word for the smell of apricots thickening the air

as you boil up jam in early summer

or the word for the way I touched you last night

as though I had never touched the geography of a woman’s body, no previous knowledge

of the arrangement of its parts,

but instead was an explorer curious about what I would encounter, each particular fold

and hollow,

with no preconception, no diagram, not even my own body

and how, even touch itself, cannot mean the same thing to both of us,

even in this small country of our bed, even in this language with only two native speakers

last night you told me you liked my eyebrows. you said you’d never seen them before.

how struck you were that we’d lived together all these years

and you’d never really seen my eyebrows.

What is the word that combines this freshness after so many years with the pity of

missing out for so many years

what is the word that says no matter how much time is lost, there are gates everywhere,

gates opening and opening into every moment,

more than we could possibly go through

we’re grateful even for the slightest comprehension, the slightest understanding, or word,

or scent,

like driving at night with the windows down and passing trees full of lemon blossoms

from somewhere far off, over the hill, across the hill.

[still don’t know where this poem begins or ends. still quite attached to those lemon

blossoms at the end]

______________________________

Untranslatable (2-1-15, 3rd draft)

Fear is my familiar, but there’s nothing in my language

that labels so precisely the German torschlusspanik--the worry

that time’s running out, nothing that conjures the rush

of medieval peasants hurrying to get inside the city walls

before the gates close for the night

and they’re left exposed to the wild animals and cold.

Or, in a more accepting mood, wabi-sabi,

the Japanese philosophy of finding beauty


in the signs of time, copper’s green patina, wood darkened

with the body’s oils, stone worn down

by generations who’ve climbed the temple stairs.

And who could find an equivalent for the Yiddish ongapatchka,

which even Jews can’t agree how to spell, that kind of over doneness,

over ornateness of a room or a woman with too many tchotchkes.

Unique, I think, is the Scottish tartle, that hesitation


Or the Czech prozvonit, a single word that means to call a mobile phone

and let it ring once so the other person will call back

And can anything else capture cafuné, the Brazilian Portuguese way to name

the act of tenderly running your fingers through someone’s hair

ya’aburnee, you bury me, the hope to die before someone so you don’t have to live

without them

but even when we talk in our common language, do we ever get to the marrow of words?

suck out its grainy richness onto our tongues?

Is there a word in any language for choosing to be happy

or for the apples when they are still tight on the tree

And where is the word for the brick of ice we call loss that is packed in the sawdust of

our hearts

or the particular frozen shards that are our worries for our children,

Is there a word for the smell of apricots thickening the air

as you boil up jam in early summer

or the word for the way I touched you last night

as though I had never touched a woman’s body, no previous knowledge of its terrain,

but instead was an explorer curious about what I would encounter,

each particular fold and hollow, without preconception

not even the map of my own body

and how, even touch itself, cannot mean the same thing to both of us,

even in this small country of our bed, even in this language with only two native speakers

last night you told me you liked my eyebrows.

you were struck that we’d lived together all these years


and you’d never really seen my eyebrows.

What is the word that combines this freshness

with the pity of missing out for so many years

what is the word that says no matter how much is lost,

there are gates opening and opening into every moment,

more than we could possibly go through

[still haven’t recognized the ending and haven’t made choices about which words would

be the example. I know I’ll have to choose, but I love them all.]

___________________________

Untranslatable (8-24-15, 4th draft)



And what could capture cafuné, the Brazilian Portuguese way to say

the act of tenderly running your fingers through someone’s hair?

And is there a term in any tongue for choosing to be happy?

And where is speech for the block of ice we pack in the sawdust of our hearts?

What appellation approaches the smell of apricots thickening the air

when you boil jam in early summer?

What words reach the way I touched you last night

as though I had never touched a woman’s body,

but was an explorer, wholly curious

to discover each particular

fold and hollow, without preconception,

not even the mirror of my own body.

And how, even touch itself cannot mean the same thing to both of us,

even in this small country of our bed,

even in this language with only two native speakers.

You told me you liked my eyebrows.

You said you never really noticed them before.

What is the word that combines this freshness

with the pity of missing out for so many years?

[Now I’ve been strict and limited myself to two of the marvelous untranslatable words

and I’ve got the poem pretty much corralled, all but the reversal of the last two stanzas]

Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout

10

Final poem: 8-10-15

The Small Country



And what could capture cafuné, the Brazilian Portuguese way to say

running your fingers, tenderly, through someone’s hair?

Is there a term in any tongue for choosing to be happy?

And where is speech for the block of ice we pack in the sawdust of our hearts?

What appellation approaches the smell of apricots thickening the air

when you boil jam in early summer?

What words reach the way I touched you last night—

as though I had never known a woman—an explorer,

wholly curious to discover each particular

fold and hollow, without guide,

not even the mirror of my own body.

Last night you told me you liked my eyebrows.

You said you never really noticed them before.

What is the word that fuses this freshness

with the pity of having missed it.

And how even touch itself cannot mean the same to both of us,

even in this small country of our bed,

even in this language with only two native speakers.

—Ellen Bass

Indigo (Copper Canyon Press, 2020)


11

EXERCISE 1.: Try locating the heart of this poem. Where is the heat? Try drawing a

box around what you think is the heart of this poem. Then, if you want, you can try to

work on it further. But for starters, just try to see where you think the most powerful,

moving, hot part of the poem is.

NOTE: This poem is unpublished, so please don't share beyond our group.

The hardest part of losing her mother during the Pandemic (first version)

my friend tells me, was after the memorial service

held on zoom that she joined from her living room

in California, her laptop propped on the coffee table

cluttered with teacups and books, as her mother’s body

was buried in a family gravesite in Louisiana. The hardest part,

she tells me, was after the eulogies and the prayers.

After the funny and heartfelt stories had been shared

and the few people standing graveside waved goodbye

and walked away, and the relatives in Illinois and New York

also said their goodbyes and clicked off one by one, and

the funeral director holding the phone, turned it around

to say good bye, and then disconnected, so there was nothing

to do but disconnect too. But, my friend tells me, when we meet

at the end of her driveway, that she couldn’t bring herself

to hit the red button at the bottom of the screen that said,

“end meeting.” And so she sat for a long time watching

the square of her own face looking back at herself, and imagined

she was her mother, and watched to see what her mother

would have seen if she was still watching too, as she had

only the week before, her face gazing on with the love

she knew her mother felt that last time they talked,

when her mother’s face, alive and vibrant, had filled

the screen in place of the lonely square that her own face

now filled. And my friend is crying now, and wondering

if I am following the odd line of her thinking, and I say I am,

because I’m thinking about my own dead mother,

and how her face lit up each time she saw me,

and I’m saying to my friend that I understand,

about the red button, and how impossible it would be

to click those words with all their finality, and watch

as the screen went back to nothing.

—Nancy Miller Gomez


12

Here's my draft of the poem I sent to Dorianne Laux many years ago:

The World Has Need of You

The world has need of you, Rilke said.

And what if he's right? What would it be like

to believe you were necessary as a maple, humming

its song of oxygen and water? Or a microbe

cooking dead flesh down to jelly?

Or a minnow doing its small part

to stir the sea? I can hardly imagine it

as I beep my car open, turn the key,

slide in the CD of French lessons

in case I get to go to Paris in the spring.

Even if I make it easier, say I walk

to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient

prayer of my arms swinging

in counterpoint to my feet, choreography

that must have stunned the first

to rise up, awkward as deer

reaching for the gold pears of autumn.

Here I am, suspended

between the sidewalk and twilight,

the metallic sheen of sky dimming

so fast it seems alive. A boy on a bicycle rides by,

his white shirt open, flaring

behind him like wings, his bare chest

so sleek I can feel it sweaty under my palm.

Can you look down at your own brown nipples

and name them beloved?

It's a hard time to be human. We know too much

and too little. Who can argue

that the breeze needs us? Or the cliffs? Or the gulls?

And even if you've managed to do one good thing,

how could the ocean care? Yet

what if you felt the invisible

tug between you and everything?

When Newton's apple fell toward the earth,

the earth, ever so slightly, fell

toward the apple as well.

—Ellen Bass


13

This is Dorianne's revision (with comments)

Well, I do like this, tho you say too much. Probably a bit of cutting is needed. Well, and

now I've cut too much, but you get the idea. Or maybe not. It just seems too preachy and

wise. I like the last lines, and the idea. Maybe I'm too tired. Will look again

tomorrow. But I could be right.

The World Has Need of You —Rilke

I can hardly imagine it

as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient


in counterpoint to my feet.



the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.

(Something about the invisible tug here)

A boy on a bicycle rides by,


behind him like wings.


and too little. Does the breeze needs us?

The cliffs? The gulls?

If you've managed to do one good thing,

the ocean doesn't care.



toward the apple as well.


14

ˆThis is to show you more visually what Dorianne deleted (a few words got tweaked in

the revision which I don't indicate here, but you can see them in Dorianne's version)


The world has need of you, Rilke said.

And what if he's right? What would it be like

to believe you were necessary as a maple, humming

its song of oxygen and water? Or a microbe

cooking dead flesh down to jelly?

Or a minnow doing its small part

to stir the sea? I can hardly imagine it

as I beep my car open, turn the key,

slide in the CD of French lessons

in case I get to go to Paris in the spring.

Even if I make it easier, say I walk

to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient


in counterpoint to my feet, choreography

that must have stunned the first

to rise up, awkward as deer

reaching for the gold pears of autumn.



the metallic sheen of sky dimming

so fast it seems alive.





behind him like wings, his bare chest

so sleek I can feel it sweaty under my palm.

Can you look down at your own brown nipples

and name them beloved?


and too little. Who can argue

that the breeze needs us? Or the cliffs? Or the gulls?

And even if you've managed to do one good thing,

how could the ocean care? Yet


tug between you and everything? this moves up



toward the apple as well. I took these two words out myself!


15


16

Here's the finished poem—just a few words changed from Dorianne's version.


everything here

seems to need us

Rainer Maria Rilke

I can hardly imagine it

as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient


in counterpoint to my feet.



the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.

What if you felt the invisible




behind him like wings.


and too little. Does the breeze needs us?

The cliffs? The gulls?

If you've managed to do one good thing,

the ocean doesn't care.

But when Newton's apple fell toward the earth,


toward the apple.

—Ellen Bass

Like a Beggar (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)


17

EXERCISE 2.: This poem has more than it needs. Practice de-cluttering and then see if

there's anything you might add. An image? A metaphor? A detail? A thought? Etc.


Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport (early draft)

The suitcase slipped off the ridged edge

of the escalator, bounced twice

then hurtled two stories down. And lucky

it was early morning two days after Christmas.

Lucky, no one stood along the sides,

no one passed the escalator’s gaping mouth

as the luggage shot through it. Its landing

a thunderclap, a crescendo that caught

the travelers’ attention when my cries

could not. The charcoal colored carry-on

skidded across the floor and stopped, lucky,

just short of the electric train tracks.

Its handle broken, stuck straight up

like a spear. Lucky, even though packed

tight, it didn’t burst. No display of gold

cable-knit sweater, flannel pajamas,

green lace boyfriend briefs. [Not

the velvet dress, nor the patent leather

pumps.] Not my late husband’s favorite

sweatshirt. The unexpected gifts—

yoga towel, body cream, bath salts—

still pressed in the zippered compartment.

Lucky, even though I had to carry it by hand,

shifting it from right to left as needed,

through the vaulted corridors. Remembering,

as I did, the days before wheeled-baggage,

before I learned the freedom of three tops,

two bottoms, two pairs of shoes for a week,

and the inevitability of discomfort

no matter where you go, what you bring.

Lucky, there under the fluorescent lights,

among strangers, the day not yet broken.

—Julie Murphy


18

chemotherapy (first draft)

my days are pain.

my mouth is a cave of cries.

i am attacked by white coats

dressed like God. what is this

chemical faith? oh

mother marywhere is your living son?

chemotherapy (revision)

my hair is pain.


my room is filled with white coats

shaped like God.

they are moving their fingers over along the wires.

they are saying their chemical faith.

chemotherapy (final version)

my hair is pain.


my room is filled with white coats

shaped like God.

they are moving their fingers along

their stethoscopes..

they are testing their chemical faith.

chemicals chemicals oh mother Mary

where is your living child?

—Lucille Clifton


19

Lucille Clifton in conversation with Pearl London from

Poetry in Person: Twenty-five Years of Conversation with America's Poets, edited by

Alexander Neubauer (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011):

"Attacked was too purposeful. The white coats were doctors. In a place like Hopkins,

which is a research hospital, they oftentimes will do things almost as if you were not a

living person but were an object of research. But it is not hostile and purposeful, so

"attacked" seemed too strong.

About changing "days" to "hair":

"It seemed to me that that made it more intense, and I wanted to center on Joanne's own

suffering, her own feelings."

Pearl London says: Moving from "my days are pain" to "my hair is pain" seems very

characteristic of your style and an enormously important lesson--the way you anchor the

abstraction, the way you concretize these abstract things.

Clifton: "I try to get to the specific thing which it seems to me illuminates the larger

thing."


20


Coo Coo Cachoo (First Draft)

The boy doesn’t trust his own skin. He concocts thick soups

of sugary scent, paints his neck and forearms with bluster,

dabs a smidgen on his testes, as if. He hanks and razors

sprouting hairs until chest and chin are as uncomplicated

as water, his ribs float in some incarnation of a cheap suit

that is always out of season. Oh, I am intrigued by that one,

fragrant willow, his droll preoccupation with biceps, pigskin

and the bellies of cars, his rollicking assumption that I am

ready for his minted breath to shift a pathway in my chest.

Idly stalked, then consumed, the child is almost too luscious

to discard. But it’s the pursuit that intoxicates, the womanly

art of filling him with himself while he imagines otherwise.

Crossing mile-high gams, my expression barely flickers.

I snap a fierce scarlet sheath to my stride, hook a manicured

forefinger under the lid of his left eye, coo with an overload

of circumstance in my nouns. I’m a jukebox thick with drag

drag songs, and that poor boy’s clawing through his pockets

for quarters. A thousand layers of my own daughter, I am

his mother and Magdalene, never has he wanted his mouth

on anything this much. I toy with his air until he plummets,

until he is splayed like a jinxed star. He is improbably young,

his hair thick and tousled, a smooth cheek bleeding where

my patent stiletto has snagged, and I consider loosing him.

He attempts a snicker with particular oil, the angles of his

face first stone, then crumble. Are you trying to seduce me,

Mrs. Robinson? I can’t imagine what gave the child that idea.

This morning, I awoke and coaxed my bones to a rhythm.

I sprinkled talcum between drooped breasts and set out to fall

beneath a hunter. Are you trying...? No, no, my love, I’m not

trying anything. We are solidly in the midst of this. He knows

that he knows how this will end. He has youth on his side--

purple tattoo riding high on a bicep, those ingrown hairs

sparkling his landscape, Jesus, there’s gel in his hair--while

my heart thuds staccato in the perfumed casing of a crone.

In a voice not unlike his mother’s, I will beg him to stop/don’t.

They dream incessantly of that drum. He believes that once

he has finished with me, I will collapse, bellowing the name

of his thrust. But the boy doesn’t trust his own skin. I press

the full of my hand against him and come away with his heart.


21

The writhing thing, insistent upon itself, is barely worth the bother.

But I lift it to my mouth. And I feed.

—Patricia Smith

____________________________________

—From Patricia: I wrote originally wrote this poem YEARS ago for a reading at Hugo

House—the theme was “Leading Ladies,” and the poems were supposed to be about

ladies in film or television. This was my “Mrs. Robinson” contribution from the film

“The Graduate.” I wasn’t satisfied with any of the other revisions I could find, so I called

up with bothersome little ditty and decided to revise it RIGHT NOW.

The boy doesn’t trust his own skin. He concocts thick soups

of sugary scent, paints his neck and forearms with bluster,

dabs a smidgen on his testes, as if. He hanks and razors

sprouting hairs until chest and chin are as uncomplicated

as water. His ribs float in some incarnation of a cheap suit

that is always out of season. Oh, I am intrigued by that one, drawn to

fragrant that smelly willow, his droll preoccupation with biceps pigskin

and the bellies of cars, his rollicking assumption how he assumes that I am

ready for primed for his minted breath to shift a pathway in my chest.

Idly stalked, then consumed, The child is almost too luscious

to discard. But it’s The pursuit, as always that intoxicates. the womanly

art of filling him with himself while he imagines otherwise.

—From Patricia about the 1st stanza: I’ll be the first to admit that I have a tendency to

overwrite—so out go “some incarnation of, and “intrigued by that one. I think that a guy

with way too much cologne on isn’t “fragrant,” but “smelly.” I also like the idea of

“smelly willow.”

“Rollicking assumption” just took up too much unnecessary room; “primed for” just

sounds meatier than “ready for.”

“Idly stalked, then consumed,” is really the whole poem in four words, and why let so

early? That also explains getting rid of “almost,” which hints at the fact that he will be

discarded eventually. And the last line in the stanza didn’t ring quite right and felt tagged

on.

Crossing mile-high gams, my expression barely flickers.

I snap a fierce scarlet sheath to my stride, hook a manicured

forefinger under the lid of his left eye. coo with an overload

of circumstance in my nouns. I’m a jukebox thick with drag of slow

drag songs, and I’ve got that poor boy’s boy clawing through his pockets

for quarters. A thousand layers of my own daughter, I am

his mother and Magdalene, never has he wanted his mouth has never craved

on anything a skin this much. I toy with his air until he plummets,

until he is splayed like a jinxed star. He is improbably delectably young,


22

his hair thick and tousled, a smooth cheek bleeding where

my patent stiletto has snagged. For a second, I pity and consider loosing him.

He attempts a But then he snickers with particular oil, the angles of his

face first stone, then crumble. Are you trying to seduce me,


—From Patricia on Stanza 2: I had to laugh at the first revision. HER EXPRESSION

DOESN’T HAVE MILE-HIGH GAMS!

“Coo with an overload of circumstance in my nouns”—What? I can’t even imagine what

I had in mind with that jumble of nonsense. The first “drag” was a typo. I’m fascinated

by slow drag—really sexually-driven ballads. Also fascinated by jukeboxes.

“A thousand layers of my own daughter”—I was really thinking about the film here, but

in the end I want the poem to be more universal. I may get rid of the Mrs. Robinson

connection altogether—haven’t decided. And what in the world is “improbably young”?

I need to do something with that stiletto, but it’s not happening yet.

Not satisfied with the end of this stanza, the “stone, then crumble” thing. Gonna think on

it.

This morning, I awoke and coaxed my bones to a rhythm.

Isprinkled talcum between drooped breasts and set out I have studied all the ways there

are to fall

beneath a hunter. Are you trying...? No, no, my love, sweet pea, I’m not

trying anything. We are oh-so-solidly in the midst of this. He knows

that he knows how this will end. He has youth more time on his side

and a complicated purplish tat riding high on a bicep, those ingrown hairs golden boy

sweat

sparkling his landscape, Jesus, there’s gel in his hair--while

my heart thuds staccato in the perfumed casing of a crone.

In a voice not unlike his mother’s, I will beg him to stop/don’t

as if the very bigness of him is a pain I would die for. They dream incessantly of that

drum.

He believes that once he has finished with me, I will collapse, bellowing the nickname

of his thrust. But the boy doesn’t trust his own skin. I press

the full of my hand against him his chest and come away with his heart.

The writhing thing, still insistent upon itself, is barely worth the bother.

But I lift it to my mouth. And I feed.

—OK, that’s weird, right?

Stanza 3: I had a tense problem. All of sudden, the speaker was at the beginning of the

day? NOPE. And I didn’t want her to have drooping breasts anyway. So I got rid of all

that misplaced throat-clearing. Still not sure about “sweet pea”—it’s probably just a

placeholder until I come up with something else. Same with “oh-so-solidly”—instead, I

need something that perks up sonically, like “midst of this.”


23

I liked making the tattoo “complicated” and shortening “tattoo” to “tat” like the

younguns do . I had NO IDEA what I was doing with “ingrown hairs”! But “golden boy

sweat” isn’t really working either. Oh, well.

“They dream incessantly of that drum” felt out of tone with—well, everything. Decided to

simply the language, especially zeroing in on the end of the poem.

No need to repeat that “doesn’t trust his own skin” line from the first stanza, although I

thought it was cute at first. ON TO REVISION TWO! ________________________________________

The boy doesn’t trust his own skin. He paints his neck and forearms

with sugary scent, dabs a smidgen on his testes. as if. Just in case.

He hanks and razors sprouting hairs until chest and chin are

as uncomplicated effortless as water. His ribs float in a cheap suit

that is always out of season. I am drawn to that smelly stinky willow,

his preoccupation with biceps leg day and the bellies of cars, Mustangs,

how he assumes that I am primed for his minted breath to shift

a pathway in my chest. The child is I believe some trash is too luscious to discard.

—From Patricia on Stanza 1: Fiddled with that opening. All that thick soup.

“As if” doesn’t work because sex, that includes his testicles, DOES happen. “Hanks” is

just confusing. Realized that I added “uncomplicated” later in the poem, so this

“complicated” had to go.

Why talk about the body, and then cover the body in a suit?

“Smelly” went to “stinky” because even a good smell can overwhelm. And I decided to

be more specific with “leg day” and “Mustangs.” Plus I like “the bellies of Mustangs.”

So I snap a fierce scarlet sheath to my stride and hook a manicured

forefinger under the lid of his left eye. I’m a jukebox of slow

drag songs, and I’ve got that poor boy is gobbling my lyric, clawing through his pockets

for quarters. I am his mother, his magic and his Magdalene, his no mouth has

never craved mere skin this much. I toy idly with his air, until he plummets,

splayed like a jinxed star. He’s delectably young, his hair thick

and tousled, a smooth his soft-grizzled cheek bleeding bleeds where my patient patent

stiletto

has snagged. For a second, I pity and consider loosing him.

But then he snickers with particular oil, arranges the most potent angles of his

face. first stone, then crumble. Are you trying to seduce me,


—From Patricia on Stanza 2: Reading aloud, I realized that the short lines sounded kind

of staccato in this stanza, so I added “is gobbling my lyric” to lengthen the line with

something interesting. Then I wanted to plump up that “m” sound in the next line. I can’t

really reconcile that plummeting splayed star, which—once there wasn’t all that stuff

surrounding it—just sounded like some overwriting I’d fallen in love with. Also, I think

the “young” thing is already out of the way—who needs a closeup of his hair?

And I’m in love with “patient patent stiletto”—so there.


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I want the boy to think his innocent little question is manipulating the speaker into bed.

So I have him “arrange the angles in his face.”

The last line wasn’t working. Too snarky. Decided to end with the question.

I have studied all the ways there are to fall dramatically beneath a hunter.

Are you trying...? No, no, lil’ darling, I’m not trying anything.

We are oh-so-thickly in the midst of this, and he knows that he knows

how this will end. He has more time on his side and a complicated

purplish tat riding high on a bicep, golden boy sweat sparkling

his landscape, Jesus, there’s gel in his hair--while my heart thuds

staccato in the perfumed casing of a crone. In a voice not unlike

his mother’s, I beg him to stop/don’t as if the very bigness of him

is a pain I would die for. He believes that once he has finished

with me, I will collapse, bellowing the nickname of his thrust.

I press the full of my hand against him his chest and come away

with his heart. The writhing thing, still insistent upon itself, is

barely worth the bother. But I lift it to my mouth. And I feed.

—From Patricia on Stanza 3: “Lil darling” isn’t working either. WHAT SHOULD I

CALL HIM?????????

“Thickly in the midst of this” is the sound I was looking for, thanks to the “th.”

OK, ONWARD! Last one (I hope!)

_________________________

—Decided the poem could probably use a little air. Hence, tercets!


with sugary scent, dabs a smidgen on his testes just in case.

He razors sprouting hairs until chest and chin are effortless as water.

I am drawn to that smelly stinky willow, his preoccupation with leg day

and the bellies of Mustangs, how he assumes that I am primed for his

pepperminted sigh to shift a pathway in my chest. I believe Some trash,

—Alliteration to the rescue. Also, the “I believe” was falling flat, so I broke the line

differently.

I believe, is too luscious to discard. So I snap a fierce scarlet sheath

to my stride and hook a manicured forefinger under the lid of his left

eye. I’m a jukebox of slow drag songs, and that poor boy is gobbling

my lyric, clawing through his pockets for quarters. I am his mother,

his magic and his Magdalene— no mouth has thirsted for mere

skin this much. I toy idly with his air, watching his soft-grizzled


25

—“thirsted for” hits better than “craved.” And I wanted to combine lines, which explains

“watching.”

cheek spurt blood where my patient patent stiletto has snagged.

For a second, I pity, consider loosing him. But then he snickers

with particular oil, arranges the most potent angles of his face pout.

—“spurt blood” vivified the line. And “potent pout” makes my ears feel good.

Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?

—Decided to let this line ride out on its own.

I have studied all the ways there are to fall dramatically beneath

a hunter. So no, lil’ darling, I’m not trying anything. We are

oh-so-thickly in the midst of this, and he knows that he knows

—I couldn’t figure out what to call him, so I won’t call him anything.

how it will end. He has more all the time on his side I don’t,

and a complicated purplish tat riding high on a bicep, and golden boy sweat

labor sparkling his landscape, Jesus, there’s gel in his hair--while my heart thuds

staccato in the perfumed casing of a crone. In a voice not unlike

—Primarily, that “perfumed casing/old crone” was a putdown of self that sounded out of

tone with everything else the speaker said.

his mother’s, I beg him to stop/please don’t as if the very bigness

of him is pain I would plead for. He believes that once he has

finished with me, I will collapse, crumble, bellowing the nickname

of his thrust. I press the full of my hand against him his chest

and come away with his heart. The writhing thing, still insistent

upon itself, is barely worth the bother. But I lift it to my mouth. And I feed.

—ONE MORE!


26


Coo Coo Cachoo


with sugary scent, dabs a smidgen on his testes just in case.

He razors sprouting hairs until chest and chin are effortless as water.

I am drawn to that stinky willow, his preoccupation with leg day

and the bellies of Mustangs, how he assumes that I am primed for his

pepperminted sigh to shift a pathway in my chest. Some trash,

I believe, is too luscious to discard. So I snap a fierce scarlet sheath

to my stride and hook a manicured forefinger under the lid of his left

eye. I’m a jukebox of slow drag songs, and that poor boy is gobbling

my lyric, clawing through his pockets for quarters. I am his mother,

his magic and his Magdalene— no mouth has thirsted for mere

skin this much. I toy idly with his air, watching his soft-grizzled

cheek spurt blood where my patient patent stiletto has snagged.

For a second, I pity, consider loosing him. But then he snickers

with particular oil, arranges the most potent angles of his pout.

Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson?

I have studied all the ways there are to fall dramatically beneath

a hunter. So no, I’m not trying anything. We are oh-so-thickly

in the midst of this, and he knows that he knows how it will end.

He has all the time I don’t, a complicated purplish tat riding high

on a bicep, and sweat sparkling his landscape. In a voice not unlike

his mother’s, I plead with him to stop/please don’t as if the very bigness

of him is a hurt I would beg for. He believes that once he has

finished with me, I will crumble, babbling of doomed love

and bellowing the nickname of his thrust. Instead, I press the full

of my hand against his chest and come away with his heart.

The writhing thing, still insistent upon itself, is barely worth

the bother. But I lift it to my mouth. And I feed.

—Patricia Smith


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—James Wright


28

Hook

I was only a young man

In those days. On that evening

The cold was so God damned

Bitter there was nothing.

Nothing. I was in trouble

With a woman, and there was nothing

There but me and the dead snow.

I stood on the street corner

In Minneapolis, lashed

This way and that.

Wind rose from some pit,

Hunting me.

Another bus to Saint Paul

Would arrive in three hours,

If I was lucky.

Then the young Sioux

Loomed besided me, his scars

Were just my age.

Ain’t got no bus here

A long time, he said.

You got enough money

To get home on?

What did they do

To your hand? I answered.

He raised up his hook into the terrible starlight

And slashed the wind.

Oh, that? he said.

I had a bad time with a woman. Here,

You take this.

Did you ever feel a man hold

Sixty-five cents

In a hook,

And place it

Gently

In your freezing hand?


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I took it.

It wasn’t the money I needed.

But I took it.

—James Wright

Above the River (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1992)


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Revision Lesson from Tim Seibles (“My First Pet”)

All developing poets are tempted to handle their poems like baby birds, afraid that

significant changes will damage the wings of the original “inspiration”. Because our

words come with feeling, we want to revise with a light touch—change a few words here

and there, maybe shift some line breaks—but there are a number of things that you can

do draft by draft that will sharpen the rendering of your subject and, consequently, allow

you to make a better poem. Many people find themselves inspired; the difference

between being inspired and being a poet is how you approach revision.

Although writing a good poem is difficult, a poem engages us in two simple ways:

1) intellectually—with ideas that engage our minds and

2) emotionally— by causing us to empathize with the poem’s speaker and to

imagine our own lives in direct relation to the speaker’s perspective. In the best

poems, the intellectual and the emotive facets interact so seamlessly that we feel

the impacts of both at once.

Because the things that make us write strike so powerfully, every poet wants his/her

work to be read and felt more than once. Each of us is quietly or not-so-quietly gripped

by what is meaningful in our own lives, and we write because we sense that what has

meaning for us could have meaning for other people. A poem offers the individual’s

experience as a marker of the life shared in the larger community. Poetry examines and

enacts the abiding connection between people. A poem is a meeting place.

But ultimately, it all comes down to words: what the words do, the poem does.

To re-vise is to re-see & re-think the words that make the poem. The question that

revision asks is how can this poem be more clear, more imaginative, more gripping?

What follows here are several looks at a poem in the process of revision.

_______________________

My First Pet (Original Draft) Stanzas matter--what do the couplets do?

When my mother brought her home,

I was completely surprised. Out of the blue

box came a reddish-gold ball of fur that dashed

around the kitchen like a four-legged wild fire.

My brother started chasing after it, and we

laughed until we cried. I couldn’t wait

another minute: I called her Blaze

and the name stuck to her like saltwater taffy.


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Pruning: removing words that add nothing to the poem, that hinder the forward

momentum.

My First Pet (2nd Draft)

When my mother brought her home,

I was surprised. Out of the blue box

came a reddish-gold ball of fur that

dashed around like wild-fire.

My brother chased it and we laughed.

I called her Blaze and the name stuck.

Note: Sometimes you realize that you removed too much.

You can always slide words back into a later draft.

____________________________

Sound: a poem’s sonic qualities can intensify the experience being conveyed or change

the feel of the poem.

*Blaze (3rd Draft) *Note the new title.

Singing Surprise! My mother broke open

the bright blue box. Suddenly a four-legged

furry ball of fire flipped over and flew

back and forth around the house. Before

we could snatch it back it snagged the curtains

with its little claws and climbed up. My brother

tried to catch her but fell flat. We laughed

and clapped. I called her Blaze and that name

stuck like a licked lollipop to the bib of a kid.

Note: when a poem’s music is loud, it grabs the ear and demands attention, but you must balance sound

and sense. You don’t want a poem’s sound to distract from its news; this is what happens when

rhyme is over-used or used carelessly.

_____________________________

Tone: the author’s attitude toward the subject, the mood that prevails as s/he engages the

poem’s central story or idea.

*That Damn Cat (4th Draft) *Note the new title


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For no reason at all, my dumb mother

brought home a nasty-ass cat

who was probably going to scratch me

and piss all over the carpet. It was the color

of an old man’s funky toupee. It yowled

for milk, howed to be petted, and kept

missing the cat box with its stiff,

prune-sized turds.

And guess who

had to clean up that crap?

I called her Dookie-shoe and the name

stuck like shit to a sandal.

________________________

Imagery: the aspects of a poem that engage any or all of the five senses. It is this

dimension of the poem that gives it texture.

*Big Bruise (5th Draft) *Note the new title

Surprise! My mother said as she flung open

the glittery, blue box, and out lunged a cat—red

like fire, like oak leaves in late autumn, like a blazing

apple.

Before she climbed them, the black velvet curtains

were spotless. My brother, plump in his too-tight knickers,

tried to grab the wild thing, but hit the wall, bringing a big bruise

to his left cheek. He laughed and we laughed. I called her

“Fire Apple” and the name stuck like saltwater taffy.

Note: Just because an image is evocative doesn’t mean it’s appropriate for the poem and, remember, too

much imagery can overwhelm the poem’s central issues. Think Balance.

________________________

Lineation: line breaks determine the pace of the poem—

short lines slow the poem down, make the reading more staccato,

long lines accelerate the reading, make it more legato.

(Also, enjambed lines add tension; endstopped lines offer relief.)

*My First Pet (6th Draft) *Back to the original title


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Out of the blue

box came a reddish-gold ball

of fur that dashed like a four-legged wild-fire.

My brother

started

to chase her and we laughed

until we cried.

I couldn’t

wait another minute: I called

her Blaze

And the name

stuck like a gummy bear.

Note: The use of stanzas also affects pacing. More stanza breaks slow the poem down; fewer speed the

poem up.

___________________________

Diction: word choice—formal or casual, cerebral or earthy, standard or slang.

*Whatever (7th Draft) *Note the new title

When mother brought her home, I nearly grew faint.

Out of the square container came a small red feline

that ambled about with no sense of restraint.

She appeared to be a four-pawed conflagration;

she threatened to bring utter mayhem to our home.

My brotha, a T.O.G., (total original gangsta)

tried to snatch her silly ass, but shit!

No dice: the cat’s vibe was whack—you feel me?

I could see that fur-ball be illin’.

I called her Whatever cuz you know the deal.

___________________________

Changing Person: Sometimes moving a poem from 1st person to 2nd (or 3rd)

shifts the way a poem is read / felt by the reader. You can

engage a subject more dramatically or less so; you can expand

the distance between subject and reader or shrink it.

Were You Ready? (8th Draft) *Note the new title


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When your mom brought her home, you were pissed.

You had no idea that your mom even liked cats.

You said, “Dammit, ma, not this little roach cat!”

Your mom said, “You better check

your attitude before you find your mouth

full of kitty litter.” You burped and stuttered.

You’d never seen your mom’s face so red—

her eyes bulging like a chipmunk’s cheeks.

You knew you’d better cool off and learn

to love the dumb hum of that furry bum.

Note: By using the 2nd person you put the reader in the poem.

______________________

Expansion: What happens when you increase the length of a poem or add an angle

that might have seemed off-subject at first? All too often, we write little

stingy, little pieces because they seem easier, but doing this can make

poems anemic and limit our chances for discovery.

My First Pet (9th Draft) *Back to the original title

When my mother started to open the big box, I wasn’t sure what to think,

even though her face was bright with a grin. She was usually not much for surprises—

and never seemed to care about pets. She sometimes talked about being scratched

when she was a girl—a stray cat, a red tabby that seemed friendly, nudging her shin

with his chubby head, but when she reached to pet it, his claws dug deep

into her wrist. She talked about her mother scolding her for “messing with strays.”

Her mother said, “Stray cats are just like men”, she said. “They’ll hurt you

for no good reason.” I always wondered what she meant by that. She seemed

to love my father, but some days they hardly spoke or maybe it was another man

she was thinking about.


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ADDENDIX: “Come Home, Lady” by Tim Seibles


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