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
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 2
NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 3
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 4
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
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 5
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.
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 6
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
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 7
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
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 8
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
when introducing someone whose name you’ve forgotten
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
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout 9
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)
Unique, I think, is the Scottish tartle, that hesitation
when introducing someone whose name you’ve forgotten
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
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Final poem: 8-10-15
The Small Country
Unique, I think, is the Scottish tartle, that hesitation
when introducing someone whose name you’ve forgotten
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)
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout
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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
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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
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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
prayer of my arms swinging
in counterpoint to my feet.
Here I am, suspended
between the sidewalk and twilight,
the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.
(Something about the invisible tug here)
A boy on a bicycle rides by,
his white shirt open, flaring
behind him like wings.
It's a hard time to be human. We know too much
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.
When Newton's apple fell toward the earth,
the earth, ever so slightly, fell
toward the apple as well.
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout
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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
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.
what if you felt the invisible
tug between you and everything?
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? this moves up
When Newton's apple fell toward the earth,
the earth, ever so slightly, fell
toward the apple as well. I took these two words out myself!
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout
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Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout
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Here's the finished poem—just a few words changed from Dorianne's version.
The World Has Need of You
everything here
seems to need us
Rainer Maria Rilke
I can hardly imagine it
as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient
prayer of my arms swinging
in counterpoint to my feet.
Here I am, suspended
between the sidewalk and twilight,
the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.
What if you felt the invisible
tug between you and everything?
A boy on a bicycle rides by,
his white shirt open, flaring
behind him like wings.
It's a hard time to be human. We know too much
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,
the earth, ever so slightly, fell
toward the apple.
—Ellen Bass
Like a Beggar (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)
Living Room Craft Talks: The Art of Revision – Week One Handout
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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.
NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
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
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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 mouth is a cave of cries.
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 mouth is a cave of cries.
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
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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."
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NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
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.
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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,
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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,
Mrs. Robinson? I can’t imagine what gave the child that idea.
—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.”
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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,
Mrs. Robinson? I can’t imagine what gave the child that idea.
—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!
The boy doesn’t trust his own skin. He paints his neck and forearms
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
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—“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!
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NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
Coo Coo Cachoo
The boy doesn’t trust his own skin. He paints his neck and forearms
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
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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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NOTE: This is an unpublished poem so please don't share it beyond our group.
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