For many years, I was reluctant to revise my poems
much. I don’t think it was that I thought they were perfect. At least I hope
that wasn’t why. I just truly believed in the strength of the initial draft,
the unconscious power of composition that occurred. I was more afraid of losing
what I felt was that inherent power, even if the poem itself was flawed. I was
more inclined to quickly move on to the next poem instead of spending time with
any one piece. This could explain why my output was so much greater in the
past.
I have been busy lately with longer, themed projects,
like the Ziegfeld poems I’ve already talked about. I also spent a good portion
of the year on a book concept concerning the women of Marx Brothers movies, a project
that’s taken a back seat to the Ziegfeld material. I decided to follow my
passions more directly, considering my very limited time to write.
I’ve also spent some time sending poems out, some new
(despite everything, there are always new poems), but a good number of old ones.
I’ve had some success there, but there’s a certain dishonesty I always feel in
sending out work that isn’t representative of my current voice. Nevertheless, I
aim for some consistency.
I pulled a few poems out from the last fifteen years
and am trying to assemble them into some sort of manuscript, with the horrifically
generic theme of “love.” Certainly, the romantic relationships in my life
provided me with a good deal of material, and in turn, writing about them
afforded me some cheap therapy that I benefit from to this day.
In order to make a uniform package, I’ve been revising
each one. This is best done first thing in the morning, while I sip my
stevia-sweetened coffee, and before the Dagwood-like rush to get out the door
for work. Even poems I’d almost committed to memory (although that’s never a goal
of mine) come up a decade later as desperately in need of order and
streamlining. My biggest fault as a poet is becoming somewhat entranced by the
sound of my own words, often to the detriment of logic. Sometimes the sun rises
in the west, and sometimes a door becomes a jar.
The distance of years and deficit of crazy-making
estrogen has given me clearer artistic vision. I am making these poems
generally better, and most definitely a more cohesive unit. The truth will set
your work free. I look forward to sending them out as a family to a few select
publishers, or even doing another Flying Monkey Press publication. It’s all the
same to me. The word’s the thing, and how it gets out there is a matter of
chance.
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