April 10, 2004
This is going to be a long post. If you're not interested in how a poem gets written, revised, rewritten and "de-scaffolded", you probably should move on.
I'm struggling to complete an assignment that we in Eamon Grennon's advanced poetry workshop were given to complete by this Thursday. And I do mean struggling. It's our second assignment.
Our first assignment was to write three possible first stanzas based on this Vermeer painting. Each stanza had to be 11 lines long, and each line had to have between 9 and thirteen syllables. At the first workshop meeting, each of us 12 "advanced poets" read his/her three versions, and the group, including Grennon, reached a decision about which version was the "best." Interestingly enough, we all tended to agree.
These are the three I wrote: (Notice that the first version was just something I had to get out of my personal system; the second was based on my doing a little historical research about the era in which the painting was executed; the third was my stretch to come up with a novel angle on the scene.)
#1
You can be sure that picking up a pen,
already dripping virulent ink,
will bring an old woman rapping at the door
armed with a burned pot and dented memory;
or maybe a mad cat clawing at the sleeve
of the rich wrap you threw on against
the chill of an exigent morning held at bay.
You yearn for moments between dawn and day,
for the silence sought by a rhymed mind.
You hunt the lines that pulled your smile from sleep,
and learn to expect interruptions.
#2
How she resents the power of such darkness –
silence making certain of shadows,
not only in the corners of houses,
but beyond those tightly sashed windows
where evil whispers clear worried streets
and innocents burn black into the night sky.
And so she closes her door, lifts the carved box
from its hiding place beneath the table’s cloth,
releases the ink pot, pen, and paper
fires banks of candles to lose herself in light,
writes what she knows must be remembered.
#3
She wonders what lie to tell him now --
A husband returned from trade too soon?
A fevered child awake all night with cries
and clutches, craving for the comfort
of her lemon silk and ermine touch?
An ankle, swollen, but not broken – no –
and sure to be better, perhaps, soon?
Her hands poise lightly above pen and pearls.
She is in no hurry to leave behind his touch,
so fiercely sweet, more honest than the fragile silk that
falls away and tangles in a nest of spotted fur.
Everyone decided that my #3 was the one to go with. I can cannabalize the good lines from the other two versions I wrote and have to refine #3 to be the best I can make it be.
THEN, then, I have to write three possible versions of a second stanza that would follow the refined #3 (same line and syllable criteria), and the group will come to consensus on which version of the second stanza is the best.
AND, and, I also have to bring in a totally separate poem, old or new, for the group to discuss and constructively critique. We did that during the first session as well, and I brought in this poem because I felt it need work. Heh. After the group's discussion (which was, indeed, helpful and constructive) I realized it needs a lot more work.
Grennon talks about how we are using what he calls "scaffolding" as we spin out a poem, and that this "scaffolding," as much as we might like it, is stuff that has to be edited out in order for the actual poem to emerge and stand on its own. Going through the process of analyzing the "scaffolding" with the other poets (several of whom I'm so impressed and intimidated by) is very helpful to me. Good thing I'm not overly attached to the details of my own creations.
I'm having a hard time with this next assignment, with refining that #3 first stanza, with coming up with three approaches for the second stanza, and with deciding which other poem to bring in for the group to critique.
Meanwhile, I also have a one-on-one half-hour with Grennon before the next workshop session, where he'll help me with a poem that's giving me trouble. I know just which one I'll bring for that. It's full of scaffolding that I love, and I need some objective and talented eye to help me see what needs to go.
Some people write poetry that's meaningful to them and they don't really care if anyone else gets it. Some people love every word they use and refuse to change anything.
Me, I want my poems to sing, and I want others to want to dance to my music. And trying to make that happen takes lots of work. And a ego that's not easily shaken by criticism.
Poetry is creative expression. It's also art. And it's also craft. The art part is either going to be there or not. But I can work on the craft. And that's what I'm doing.
There will be more on my struggle through this current assignment. There's going to lots of process and crafting before there's are four poems I feel comfortable taking into the next workshop session.
Poet at Work.
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Old Comments (5)
myrln on 10 Apr 2004
Interesting. To me, poetry is revelation, an opening: to/of poet and to/of listener/reader/sharer. "I am/have been here," says the poet. "I am/have been here, too," says the reader. Then both are seeing/being and become in a way their own poem.
Yes?
maria on 11 Apr 2004
Sounds like poetry boot camp ... but you already have the drill down pact: expression, art, and craft! You'll be in plenty of shape, even after the workshop, to run rings around any writer's block.
Thank you for sharing with us this process (the inspiration and the drudgery of it all); it really feels as if you had included us in the workshop itself.
Elaine of Kalilily on 11 Apr 2004
This struggle is a learning experience for me -- maybe a painful one as it's turning out. I think I'll learn more about myself than I will about how to force a poem (which is not how it should happen anyway). It's becoming an exercise in honesty for me. And that's where all art begins, right?
Lindsay on 25 Apr 2004
I write poetry because I have to or else I'll go crazy. If people end up liking what I write, that's great, but I don't usually spend very much time on any one poem. Poetry might be the one thing I have a natural affinity for, but I probably write an average of 5 poems a year, and I'm not very confident about what I write.
As a kid I always liked building things. I liked hammering nails into wood, and once I even made a cathouse that my cat never used. I think I was just starting to understand the rush that creating something brings. I get that rush after I finish a poem, because I know nobody else has ever made anything like what I've just made, and nobody ever will.
Lindsay on 26 Apr 2004
I was just thinking about that last comment I left you and how it ties in to what you said in your post.
"Me, I want my poems to sing, and I want others to want to dance to my music."
Poems should do something for the people who read them, otherwise they're like that cathouse I built, sitting unused in the corner of the garden. I'd rather make something that serves a purpose, otherwise my poetry will end up like those "impossible object" furniture items that only confuse people who look at them.