Sunday, November 7, 2021

** A Week's Dedication- Closer to the Finish Line**

 


You're sick of hearing about it I know, but recently, after thinking I was actually done with that Ziegfeld collection, I realized I had several drafts in my files that I’d arrogantly labeled, “FINAL.” Ha. I’ve spent quality time every day this past week reviewing those drafts, making notes on one main version, and retyping the whole thing yet again.

There’s a lot of spark I tend to leave out of subsequent drafts, and this process has really livened up the collection. I had random single versions of poems as well, and they were reviewed and had choice lines moved to the main version, too. Sometimes there’s just a line or phrase that really shines, and it leaves me wondering how it was excised in the first place! 

I also found poems that ultimately hadn’t made the cut. The collection has a sort of narrative arc to it, and I have been so drawn into the lives of there people, Anna Held, Marilyn Miller, Ziegfeld himself, that digressive poems have naturally been written, but now do not contribute to the greater work.

I’ve made some other decisions, too. I contacted a friend with many years of experience to proofread the finished work, because let’s face it— it’s nearly impossible to do so on your own. I have made the offer when distributing every self-published chapbook to reward anyone that finds a typo. Luckily no one’s taken me up on it, or I’d be destitute. So, with all the work I’ve put into this project, it deserves a professional eye on it.

I’ve spoken in the past with an extremely talented designer, and I will reconnect with him again when the time comes. I am fairly certain this, too, will be a self-published work, but perfect bound and perhaps through Lulu or one of those other services. I too often see the vices of self-publishing, but there is a certain equity in it as well. I am hoping to make this more than a vanity project, but the target audience might be a bit too narrow for any outside company to want to take a chance.

I’m thinking about adding four line drawings, too, because if it’s going to have limited appeal (poetry, Follies) why not go all the way. I used to draw as much as I wrote, once upon a time, and I’m not sure how visual arts dropped out of my expressive tool set. I am fooling around and seeing what I come up with.

Below is one of the poems that didn’t make the cut, but similar to others that are included. My overall goal is to bring these people back to life- as stars, as humans, as Follies legends. Please let me know what you think in the comments.

 

 

Flo and Billie Disagree

 

Flo motors up to Hastings after the show, 

 

after his own dance around costumers, songwriters, 

 

bill collectors, chorus girls, and 

 

Billie is up late, waiting. 

 

“Who was it tonight, Flo? That little brunette

 

with the dimpled knees?  That big girl

 

with the icy stare and the long fingers?

 

Or perhaps Little Miss Sugar Lump, 

 

this season’s latest fashion?”

 

 

Billie picks up a cloisonne’ vase, 

 

impressed herself a moment by its weight

 

filled with water and gladiolas, 

 

then throws it in Flo’s direction. 

 

Her aim is good, her arm strength less so.

 

Flo has plenty of time to duck. 

 

The vase crashes to the floor,

 

shards of porcelain and pink petals

 

exploding across the Turkish rug. 

 

 

“Now Billie—“

 

“Don’t you ‘Now, Billie’ me, Flo!

 

I’ve had it! This is the last time!”

 

Billie finds a lamp in her hands, 

 

pink dupioni’ silk, cream colored base,

 

ginger jar style. This one’s a little 

 

lighter than the vase, and her 

 

aim superior. Still, 

 

Flo dodges the stylish projectile. 

 

 

“Billie, your problem is that 

 

you always pick the wrong girl!”

 

Flo smiles, hoping to diffuse the 

 

raging red-headed volcano before him. 

 

Another vase grazes his shoulder.

 

“Now Billie, wait! I’ve got something 

 

to show you!” He pulls a wide bracelet

 

from his pocket, unwrapped, thick 

 

with diamonds. Flo holds the 

 

peace offering out to his wife, 

 

who pauses just a second to admire 

 

the glittering stones in the dim light 

 

of early dawn. 

 

 

Billie seizes the gift, and 

 

tosses it into the far corner 

 

of the parlor, making a mental note

 

when she hears where it lands,

 

behind the potted fern.

 

She is not careless, after all.

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