she
there was once a shaggy child who dreamed
of pink and white pinafores
and sweetly starched crinolines
such a scruffy thing with holes in her shoes
and square peasant hands
far too angry, crying too easily
who made this annoying child?
who could be a friend to her?
privy to cinemascopic dreams and
insane visions of angels
conjuring a name from the wind
what landscapes did she wander?
this woman whose mind drew blanks, drew pictures
grew to a fury, a bird, a lover, a mother
grew tomatoes, grew old
she has always known
all mirrors are traps for fools
she sees through walls and floors
and has not broken
speaking in tongues
children comprehend
does anyone notice where she goes?
this woman, so curdled and old
and so alive
stumbling along
kicking
like a mule
like the devil himself
that much I can tell you
I originally wrote this poem,
SHE a couple of weeks ago.
Sirenita Lake, generous soul that she is, was taken with my poem but felt it needed editing. She did not immediately send me her version, but tactfully offered to send me what she believed was a cleaner version. I asked her to, please. And what she sent I thought was lovely, including her explanations as to why she did this and that and what she believed she had accomplished.
Her version is very economical and logical, but with poetry, its not yours, until it is. It's a funny process I'm trying very hard to understand. And since I've never had a poem edited by someone else, it was fascinating to see my words rearanged and reinterpreted, this way and that. I let myself digest her version, let it simmer for a bit. I thought I could do it instantly, but it didn't happen.
And as you may have read in my comments on other blogs, I've been spring cleaning. Since there wasn't an autumn cleaning, this house had taken on the look, feel and smell of a haunted mansion presently inhabited by living smelly dogs.
So I've been cleaning. And cleaning. And cleaning.
And while I engaged in this truly homeric and monstrous task, I thought about my poem. Since I intend to take this particular poem to a poetry reading this afternoon, I decided to work on it and see how I could integrate all this good stuff and make it once again resonate to me as mine.
To Sirenita: You are very kind. THANK YOU. So very generous to do this, give me your time and energy. What you did was immensely helpful.
And your version is beautiful and may in fact be a better poem than what I have come up with.
What follows is SirenitaLake's edited version of my poem.
When I read it, it did not read as mine: the rhythm was different, it lacked certain elements, most noticable to me was that the devil was gone. I do love that particularly sequence so back it went. And the line "children love the child she is" was never what I really wanted to say, except to discuss how she connects with children and I believe now I've clarified that.
In the end, you can see how a good editor will clarify and pare down excess.
And then in my revised version, how a writer will stubbornly put it all back in again. And then some.
Hopefully a bit better than the first time. :)
A shaggy child dreamed
Of pink and white pinafores
And sweetly starched crinolines
A scruffy thing with holes in her shoes
Square peasant hands
Far too angry, crying too easily
Who made this annoying child?
Who could be a friend to her?
What landscapes did she wander?
Privy to cinemascopic visions
Of every lunatic angel
Conjuring her name from the wind.
She grew to be a fury a bird a lover a mother
A woman whose mind drew blanks drew pictures
Grew tomatoes grew old
Mirrors are traps for fools
Seeing through walls and floors, she is not broken
One curdled lumpy old woman
Does anyone notice where she goes?
Children love the child she is
Alive, stumbling along, kicking
Speaking in tongues
Jan Wilberg
Sirenita Lake
Robert Crook
Kenneth Sibbett
OS Readers' Picks
Kathryn O'Hehir
Salon.com
Comments
How fun... you're exchange of ideas, and how cool of you to share the process and different results.
I'm with you though, about the details. At least when it's someone else's poem. MINE. jeeze louise I pour over every sentence. every phrase. I have to laugh at this. I really do.
lots of time to noodle it up!!
:D
But it is very cool to look at the evolution of an idea. Sort of like seeing the same painting in different mediums.
this one...which :) is probably not the first
can we see your first first?
This is a piece that must be very close to your heart. ~r
A good collaboration FM & SL
most of my poems are very immediate, like pancakes. you're right about the immediacy issue. you cannot be too measured. but as I'm learning with poetry AND painting, what looks immediate and fresh isn't necessarily as it seems. sometimes there's a lot A LOT of work, weeks, months of work.
I heard a poem today about baseball. initially it would seem to anyone to have been created very quickly. it was the simplest, most affirming poem. and the poet labored over it for weeks..to try to capture that exact moment. and he did a bang up job of it.
I'm really pleased you enjoyed the process. I loved it myself.
Going a step further, I suppose all published writing becomes a collaborative effort. We don't often think about this when we read, how much of a work is the mind and eye of the editor. Makes me wonder how many works of genius are works of a genius PLUS genius editing. :D
"She grew to be a fury a bird a lover a mother
A woman whose mind drew blanks drew pictures"
... among others.
this collaboration...
"with poetry, its not yours, until it is. It's a funny process ..."
and this is an even funnier one..
compact, is sirenita.
it intimates an almost omniscient author.
it bespeaks a completed fact, artfully examined,
slammed into verse.
yours? more free-ranging, and immediate.
(i share your ambivalence re. immediacy...
immediacy sometimes should be savored in speech,
in conversation,
for it does not retain its fresh shock
when recorded for later)
also: it is much like the subject of this poem:
"so alive
Stumbling along
Kicking
Like a mule"
Connecticut. Blessed state. missed winter. missed spring.
eternal summer!
Collaboration is a great thing.
I like 'em both....
Less is more, but less
Needs to be
Most.
And that's where Sirenita taught me so much about telling the story. It's hard as hell to edit myself, to change and take out, but I'm trying harder. In fact, some of that which I managed to put back in, I'm taking out again. I just don't want to edit what I've written here any more. I'm doing it on the word doc.
besides, I'm busy noodling the new one.
and a fantastico poet in your own write.
(right?) (rite?) (jesus h!)
retaining the freshness while noodling the thing, beating it about with a wooden spoon is not easy. but I endeavor!
and yes, it is hot. and where the hell is the rain? blessed state my ass. we need rain. my little garden looks so small and sad and parched.
create a name for a workshop blog. Give the password to any genuine writer or editor and not some asshat sports blogging spammer and we could put up unfinished work or works that invite editing. And writers would benefit. And editors would benefit. ahh...utopia!
Less is more.
but sometimes more is good.
Gives an editor something to edit. (laughing)
____________________________
Lunchlady, thank you. I loved the process. I think you would too. It's nice to see someone make a silk purse out of a silk purse with a lot of loose ends.
I've never been edited before so it was an adventure. I will admit, scary though. The minute I wrote to her, "Oh please do", my stomach flipped. I have no idea why but it did. Funny. :)
My version is mine. Your version is wonderful. So clean and concise. Yes, I made the devil and the mule work but only because you helped me by cleaning up the poem. There were too many loose ends so you helped cleared the way for details that were muddling the vision.
Insane angels. Lunatic angels. I like them both. Actually at this moment I'm rather taken with the idea of lunatic angels because they seem to my mind so rowdy. Like drunken angels. Gone wild.
(laughing)
THANK YOU THANK YOU.
Any time you feel the calling. And you know I mean that:
ANY TIME!