All right, I’ll admit it. I’m obsessive about editing my own work. This can be a good thing. I find the more I edit (and read), the better I get. I wince when I remember how I used to gaze fondly at my poems, rhapsodizing their every perfection.

But sometimes I wonder if I might have swung too far the other way. Do I now over-edit to compensate for my separation anxiety? Is my novel suffering from the botox effect because I don’t want to let go?

It’s definitely a problem with my news poems. Karl Barth, a long-dead theologian, recommended praying with one hand on the bible, one on the newspaper. There are times I write poems in a similar way, typing with my eyes on the Globe and Mail.

And then, of course, I edit. And edit. And yeah. For another 3 or 4 months until the story is so off the radar, no one’s interested. I figure one day I can publish a book of poetry called Stale Dated. Should be a best seller.

Today’s poem is a perfect example. It was written for the sinking, off the coast of Brazil, of a tall ship carrying students back in February of this year. The images were irresistible but my first draft was not so good. Take a look:

First Version
Sinking Past You
For the sinking of the Concordia, Feb. 17, 2010

How a boat moves in the wind
white sails rearing, a stallion against
an unseen roaring that pushes
it over into the waves, oil slicking
canvas, flooding decks
with panic. But rehearsals
work, guide you in the fierce
dark to the airbags flying out
from the sides till you huddle
anchovies in a capsizing
can, skyscrapers of water lifting
and dropping you as if
you don’t matter. Which you don’t
to the salt of the wind grinding into
your faces. But like the Santiago’s crew
you live while the ship goes down
bereft on the ocean floor, another home
for those who dwell in darkness
and the deep silence of the sea.

Now this one should probably go down in the record books. Ooh, a stallion and anchovies in one poem. And airbags flying out from the sides. Sometimes I write so fast, my brain cells don’t have a chance to converse. I need time afterwards to check for mixed metaphors.

Here’s what sober second (and third and fourth … ) thought produced:

Sinking Past You
For the Concordia, Feb. 17, 2010

How a boat moves in the wind,
a downdraft rearing white sails against
an unseen roaring pushing
waves pushing sides slicking
canvas until tipping starts. Rehearsals
guide you through fierce
clouds till you huddle, ice cubes
in a capsizing tray, water walls lifting
and dropping as if
you don’t matter. Which you don’t
to the salt of the wind grinding
your faces, licking your lips
to puckers. Santiago-style, you live
while the ship turns to bone, another home
for those who dwell
in the deep silence of the sea.

I can’t hope for another ship to sink so I can have this poem ready to send out (can I?) but meanwhile, if there is another serial killer in Canada, I have one ready for his wife.

I love medical research. I find the body endlessly fascinating even when I don’t understand all the terminology. It’s like learning a foreign language. Equally fascinating for me is what isn’t known: the body is a complex system far beyond any computer models they’ve come up with.

It’s also mysterious.

I know people whose bodies just work. They glide through their days. Okay, so they’re young. But I know others, including young ones, whose brains are wired wrong or whose lungs grow spots. And then there’s mine, which suffers fierce electrical storms. Among other things.

So the body can be a hard place. That’s the subject of today’s poem.

First draft:

Grey Fog

The more I learn the more
I am amazed the body works
at all. Add spare parts
to a car and it will
go wrong, the fridges
of grandma showing what
complexity adds to a repair
bill. They pale beside
our genes, spliced from
mom and dad, zygote
and sperm containing seeds
so small, an oak couldn’t find
its way. And yet we do,
multiplication breeding kidneys,
fingers, brain, a heart that must
stand a lifetime. Seems
absurd, that in that pink
pulsing mix is stamp-collecting,
the deep desire for a violinist’s
bow, the need to know
how an engine ticks, and why
we are here, but it is. DNA splices
new combo packages, sans choice,
sheer luck of the bloody draw whether
schizo will be spat in your hat
or honours laid with crystal.
If the photocopier jams as you
form, expect mutations, a stutter
stretching across pages, or worse,
an irregular blotch where you needed
to breathe, where your mind wanted
to think, where a valve would have formed
unblemished. It’s a miracle so many
of us live, some clearly marked
damaged on our labels, some
with tears in our hidden
seams.  We’re not alone. There is
no perfect flower, no bush
without a mark. Nature
is not perfect.

When I sat down to edit this, I was bewildered by the title. I guess I was obeying my poem-a-day rule of writing down the first thing that came into my head. Yeah, I have no idea where ‘grey fog’ came from either.

It didn’t take me long to choose ‘Speckled Leaves,’ since I wanted a title that foreshadowed the ending. Then I had to do some basic research since my memory is not my best part (though I do have lovely ankles). Zygote? Nope, that’s not what the mama egg is called. But once I found out the zygote is the combination of ovum and sperm, I liked it better, so in it stayed.

My big problem with editing this poem was choosing examples. Which issues slid in most cleanly? Which talents worked? Stamp collecting showed up in the first draft but is so rare these days, I decided to replace it. And much as I love philosophy, I couldn’t find a way to make it work—not philosophy’s failing, it just means I didn’t work hard enough.

Instead, I went for a more contemporary example (time to stop stale-dating myself) and added in what is to me, an astonishing predisposition towards activism that some have (thank heavens).

Then I tightened the poem, each draft allowing me to see waffling phrases more clearly. And of course, I read the poem out loud to myself, so I could hear how the words sounded together. I know it can seem boring to go back over and over your work this way but I’ve found it’s the only route to singing. And I want my work to sing.

Current final version:

Speckled Leaves

The more I learn the more
I am amazed the body works.
Add spare parts to a car
and it goes wrong, grandma’s fridge
showing what complexity adds
to a repair bill. Both pale
beside our genes, that combo
spliced from mom and dad, zygote
containing seeds so small, an oak
couldn’t find its way. And yet we do,
multiplication breeding kidneys,
fingers, brain, a heart that must
last a lifetime. Absurd
that in that pink pulsing mix lies
web design, a violinist’s bow, the need
to right what isn’t known, or how to rev
an engine’s guts. DNA is sheer luck
of the bloody draw, no choice
whether schizo will be spat or honours
laid with crystal. Jam the photocopier
and leave a stutter stretching
across pages, a blotch where you need
to breathe, where a valve would form
unblemished. It’s a miracle
so many of us live, some marked
damaged on our labels, some with tears
in hidden seams. Small consolation:
there is no perfect flower,
no bush without a mark.

I was thinking of so many when I wrote this and I dedicate the poem to them, especially I and N.

I’ve written dozens of poems to my migraines in the past but none have worked out. All are in my crap file. This is the first one where I think I’ve begun to move from simple wails – ‘it hurts, it hurts’ – to better imagery for why and how. But, needless to say, the poem needed editing.

First Version:

Bad Day

Carla stayed the night, so did
thunderstorms hovering over
nearby towns. I feel their weight
pressing skull-down though
they haven’t come near enough
to watch lightening slice
my face open. Your voice
is thunder enough and your hands
slide the spikes of rain down
my back. I am skin-sensitive,
nerves the tiny fuses
lightening sparks from, a system
strung on power cords
I don’t have.

Only a minor title change this time, and as usual, just so I can provide that bit of context my readers need. After all, how many people know that migraineurs are often weather-sensitive? It’s always good when editing your own work to question your assumptions, the knowledge you take for granted. Having someone else read your work helps here – if they say WTF, it’s important to listen. I remember arguing with one of my early readers (sorry Deepa), only to realize in the end she was right. If she couldn’t figure out what the poem was about, I had a problem. So that’s why I harp on this issue.

From there on in, it was the usual editing, which almost always means pruning, rearranging, and finding the best expressive images.

The latter is something I practise while walking or driving. I’ll make up non-traditional, non-clichéd descriptions for people, trees, a parking meter (grey nun waits, curbside, for my offering), etc. Since I want to transform how readers look at these things, I have to make the images compelling. So in this poem, I use thunderstorms as both metaphor for pain as well as origin, but I use it in an intimate way, saying it stayed the night, like our friend did.

I’m not saying I’m always successful at this (there is a comments section below), but it’s something I work at.

Current Version:

Bad Head

Carla stayed the night, so did
thunderstorms hovering over
nearby towns. It’s too far
to see the jagged edges slice
my face open but their weight
presses skull-down. Voices
are thunder enough, all touch
the spike of rain pounding
pavement. I am skin-sensitive,
nerves the tiny fuses lightning
sparks from, a system strung
on power cords I don’t control.

This poem has been re-revised. See Another Ending Rewritten.

My nephew from Tanzania is starting to write poetry. He’s a nephew by affection, so there’s no biological connection to explain this. It’s simply a case of another teenager (this one tall, athletic, and 16 years old) falling in love with the power of words. Once again, I’m reassured that poetry is not a dying art.

When the family visited Canada this July, we saw as much of them as we could, including having them over for dinner at which we served barbequed sausages, much to David’s twin sister’s dismay. Anne had watched a documentary, Food, Inc., about where our meat comes from and she described it beautifully. I’m not sure we’ll be eating sausages again for a while.

Just before they left that evening, David set a challenge: to write poems to the sausages’ origin. He wrote his later that night, playing with the theme in an excellent metaphorical way. I took longer and was inspired by Anne’s concerns.

I had to be careful though. My first 17 drafts were intensely moralizing. And that wasn’t good.

Take a look at the first version:

Sausage

Sausage once played in mud, little feet
wallowing in cool earth on way
to pull teat. Jostled with round
friends, no pink, just the coarse skin
of bristles mottled the colours genes
gave. Sun shone, went in. Pig grew
through winter’s barn, out to spring’s
trough where slop lay. And grew.
Heard rough grumble on track,
the squeal of metal then stop.
Lined up grunting, climbing, moving,
stinking, into walls, floors, white chill
leaking fear as stun ends pig and
stripping begins, reducing to useable
parts then grinding, the making
of sausage, happy sausage. Others
grow in cubicle, barn blind, no sun
to play. Meat mixed with other
misery we eat, stuffed in tight
foreign skin.

Note how I started by giving the reader no context for the poem, so my opening image is simply bizarre. Then I give the mass-market pigs short shrift and seem to imply they don’t go through the abattoir. And since I don’t give any information to explain the final phrase, ‘tight foreign skin’, the ending doesn’t work either. It’s irrelevant that I’m correct – Anne can grey your hair describing how supermarket sausages are made from pork from various countries combined in yet another country. If my readers don’t know what I’m talking about, then the poem fails.

So I added a new beginning, one that has my narrator opening a package of organic sausages, though I worked not to name that but only to show it in subsequent lines. I broke the poem into two stanzas so the warehoused pigs get their own prominence, even if only briefly. That hierarchy of attention is deliberate – it’s the only moralizing I allowed myself. Apart, that is, from the actual description of the pigs’ living conditions. But even there, I forced myself to be terse in the second part, not to linger, not to cast explicit value judgements. Remember, all this took me draft after draft. I’m not a quick learner.

Finally, I needed an ending. One that was honest – after all, I do eat sausages and feed them to guests (sorry Anne!). I decided to bring this poem back to the kitchen where it began. I wanted to state the facts and then serve them up. See what you think:

Sausage

Looking back from brown paper, the coil
of links linked, we remember pig
once played in mud, little feet wallowing
in cool earth on way to teat pull. Jostled
with round friends, coarse skin of bristles
mottled the colours genes threw. Sun shone,
went in. Pig grew through winter’s barn, out
to spring’s trough where lunch lay, a feast
of barley and corn rain produced.

Others, now buried beneath the pressure
of shrink-wrap on foam tray, grew barn blind,
cubicle tight, bulked by slop sick cells would
thrive on. They too heard the rough grumble
on track, the squeal of metal stop. Lined up grunting,
stinking, into the place where white chill
leaks blood, where stun then stripping starts.
Useable parts packaged, the grind becomes
the sausage, bits and pieces crushed then stuffed
into casings we eat. After all, it’s dinner time.

What would be nice in a future version? I’ve just realized I’ve left out the smell of the sausages grilling, the taste of them in a toasted bun heaped high with onions and mustard. I feel another draft coming on …

P.S. Ian MacLachlan, my ‘boss’ at The Canadian Geographer, wrote a book on the beef industry with the great title, Kill and Chill. I’ve offered him Cluck and Pluck should he ever do chickens.