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.
Tags: Watch Me Edit
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