Sometimes I think I know where a poem is going from the start and sometimes it goes its own direction. The latter type is usually the easiest to write: when the muse speaks, I transcribe. Then edit the mess later. The former take more work. I can often have a thought in my head and struggle with how to capture it for weeks.

Today’s poem is a combination.

It was written late at night on our recent visit to family in England. I was tired. My husband was already asleep. It had been a long day of driving and playing piggy-in-the-middle with four small nephews. But I still had to write my poem for the day.

At first my mind was blank. No ideas came. But I have a rule for these situations: I make myself write down the first words that come into my head.

That wasn’t hard. We were in a cold drafty room in Clevedon overlooking the River Severn Estuary. The wind was moaning as I sat, thumbs poised over my phone.

The poem began writing itself. But then stopped. The ending just wouldn’t come.

At first, I didn’t mind staying up struggling with word after word. For one thing, the first part of the poem got better; for another, the night view across the estuary (which I could see through a slant in the curtains) was as beautiful as the wind’s rattle at the glass.

But I could only enjoy the cold because I knew warmth was waiting. I wondered what it would be like to sleep in such a room in winter without the rads under the window. After all, this was August and already the damp chill Brits are famous for was seeping in. How had people coped in winter, I wondered, especially the poor ones?

That thought became what I wanted for the ending of this poem. I didn’t want it to be just another pretty one, filled with nice images. I wanted it to say something of substance. But I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Finally, I threw a few (bad) words on the end and crawled under the covers.

Phone Draft:
Wind Moans
We’ve pulled the curtains, can’t see
the estuary’s mouth black rippled
under the barest glint of cloud
torn stars. Can’t see Wales sparkling
gold and silver on the far shore,
can’t hear its cars whizzing
down ribbon strips of highway.
But the glass is old, sits unsteady,
wind-rocked in high panes allowing
the tossing of frenzied leaves, the rush
of tide on beached rock to enter
our room with a long, undulating
moan under all. You sleep
already, tucked under the warmth
of deep duvet my body wants
to join after day’s long road. Another
bed, another night, but this one with
storm’s safe sleeping.

Two weeks and much reflection later, I’ve got an ending I’m happier with. But it took me 24 tries to reach, some longer, none shorter. Here are a couple of my attempts:

I think
of days before rads, when wool’s
ragged twine, the family share
held all as sleet spat, found gaps.

I think of days before metal clanked
heat out, to when sleet spat, found gaps.
Coal dust’s black-sooting
of fingers, lungs is all white-washed
now. Doors raised, the dates
on grey stones lengthened
in short grass at the church
down the road.

You can see that I knew where I wanted to go and was beginning to find the images I would use. The problem was keeping it comprehensible without being moralizing. Here’s what I ended up with. Note it’s called ‘Current Version.’ While I plan to send this one out to a journal soon, I suspect I’ll keep tinkering with it anyway.

Current Version:

Wind Moans

We’ve pulled the curtains, can’t see
the estuary’s mouth black rippled
under barest glint of cloud
torn stars. Can’t see Wales
gold and silver on far shore,
can’t hear cars whizzing down
its ribbon strips of highway.
Glass is old, sits wind-rocked, allowing
the tossing of frenzied leaves, rush
of tide on beached rock to enter,
a long, undulating moan.
You lie in deep duvet my body needs
as cold finds bone, thinks of days before
metal clanked heat out, to when sleet spat,
found gaps, when coal dust’s black-sooting
of fingers, lungs couldn’t reach
room’s corners. We are temporary, one night
on a long road, our journey the safe kind.
Those who came before knew only
river and winter’s bite.