I’ve mentioned here how reluctant I was at first to do any major revision to my poems. I had succumbed to Allen Ginsberg’s dubious statement concerning his, “first thought, best thought” mentality. I now regard this notion as more wishful thinking rather than practical advice.
The art of poetry evolves like any other art over the course of one’s practice, and my own is a clear example of this. I can glance at a poem and estimate by the style and format about when it was written. That is, if it’s not already dated, a habit I started early on and probably picked up from Ginsberg, too. I can find poems in my files written over forty years ago, from the age when you have so much less to write about, and so much less experience to inform your words.
I only started to commit to the art of poetry in college, although I’d written from the time I actually learned to write. So many wonderful poets stop writing after graduation, considering poetry just another bad habit of their college years, like binge drinking and flip-flops. Those who continue, and some of them have been my companions in this quirky endeavor for decades, are apt to discover an ever-changing path. If the poet allows their words to come from their purest impulses, unfiltered by whatever impression they’ve been bombarded with over the years concerning what Poetry is supposed to sound like, they will be fine and powerful artists. If they allow that influence to sway them, they might as well quit and go flip burgers and make babies.
In the last few weeks, I’ve been reviewing a collection of poems I wrote in 2015. I wrote one poem a month, warming up with a description of the weather, then events of that month and my reaction to them. Many poets have employed the “once a month” or “once a day” format as a writing exercise, and usually with much more effective results. Although I feel I am flexible enough to bounce off most prompts and come up with a successful poem, most other contrivances usually stifle me. So it was with these poems, and it took me seven years to even look at them again, so unimpressed I was with my results.
But now I see that there is a sort of arc, intended or not, to the action, a slice of life tone. It was an eventful year—a couple of significant passings, a visit with my Floridian parents. But the poems themselves stuck too closely to my original self-imposed restrictions. Now I feel I am entitled to slash and burn to achieve better poems and a stronger whole. The most striking difference to me, though, is how inclined I am now to allow natural lines their real length. For years I’ve been overly fond of enjambment, carrying lines and complete sentences over from one line to the next. Now that seems affected and annoying to me.
I’ve given the lines that run for two or more lines the respect they probably deserved years ago. Some trimming’s been involved as well. I’m growing more comfortable with longer lines, lines that encompass an entire thought instead of leading the reader on like an anxious prom date. I trust my phrasing to carry the impact without tricks or traps. And it may lead to something better. At least another Flying Monkey chapbook in 2022. Here’s a sample:
March
Winter cracks, spring seeps in.
The neighborhood’s defrosted.
The ground itself sweats off its dream,
soft mud at the foot of the walkway
still corralled by thin puddles of ice.
After a birthday of some warm return,
jazz in the woods with old friends,
crackers with local cheese,
wine from grapes in their own backyard,
I am free to shed a layer, reawakening bear,
even willing to freeze a little now,
just for the freedom of one less sleeve,
fingers chilled without gloves
and their numb clumsiness.
Not one day dry enough, rainless or fogless,
so the green strip is missing down the big parade’s route.
We opt for theater instead, where old seats are warm, no mic necessary.
Corned beef after, simmered all night in the crock pot.
Again Maureen O’Hara strides pridefully barefoot
across Technicolor meadows of Ireland;
again Duke learns the value of money, love, tradition;
again Micheleen wets his whistle in exchange for news.
We crowd on the couch to watch it all, us and Daughter #2,
balance soda bread, colcannon, dab of collards on the side
for something green, YouTube for dessert.
