Idea or memory

Revising a draft, for me, means returning to the poem from several perspectives. I might change the speaker from first person to second or third person, or change the poem so that there is not a clear speaker at all–no longer “lyric.” I may alter specifics, such as place names or seasonal references. Or fictionalize with invented crises, persons, time periods, or events. Take on a persona, for example. Add or delete dialogue. These are interpretive and point-of-view considerations: How can I broaden the poem’s reach?

I might then revise for stanza patterns. Or find a vague meter going on in the piece which I will decide is worth pursuing, if it will enhance the poem; sometimes it does not work that way.  If an image intrigues me, or puzzles or frustrates me, I’ll devote some revision effort to that. Play with alliteration or assonance, rhyme or off-rhyme, line lengths. Those are craft considerations, mostly.

When I work on a draft, my approach is that craft should hone perspective, and should be a silent partner in the poem. Early drafts, if promising, possess something inherently interesting. Otherwise, there’s nothing to work on or work with–the poem never really happens. Maybe all it manages to be is an idea, or a memory.

~

Sarasota

During the recession

laid off and without

even an old car

I lived in Sarasota

red tide gulf waters

slew of small fishes

dead on the beaches

where I went shell

hunting for lack of

other purpose.

Lizards on my walls

everything that mattered

blotted in moist air

novels and notebooks

drew mildew my hair

haywire the boy I loved

brown eyes & panic

sea at sunset gulls

and palmettos.

Once weekly I’d bike

to Unemployment

and wait in line to prove

I couldn’t get a job

but that I’d tried

& after my humbling

before government

agencies I’d stop at a

coffee shop on Fruitville

Road and order two

eggs over easy home fries

brown toast coffee &

blueberry pie.

There was something

so filling about that

meal I still think of it

silky blueberries in my

mouth the tip I left

the blond waitress who

kept my coffee cup full

and always called me

Darlin’.

~

[image error]