Bad Head is an appropriate poem to revisit, given what weather systems have been doing inside my brain for days now. It’s one I took to Don while I was at the Banff Centre and while he liked almost all of it, he wondered where the ending was. Ah. Ditch the last line, he said, and get back to work.

Previous 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.

I have a penchant for the short punchy ending. Don doesn’t. That doesn’t automatically mean he’s right—he’s told me to ignore his advice when I feel a poem’s integrity demands it.

But I’m always going to take what he says seriously. So far, I’ve only kept one word that he questioned. Every other time, his comments have led me much deeper into the structure and meaning of the poem we’ve been discussing.

So I started my revision of this one by wondering what was missing. Why wasn’t Don content if he liked it so much? I realized I’d started the poem’s arc but hadn’t finished it. If this was purely a descriptive poem about a migraine, I might get away with ending it there. But it’s not. It’s got a time frame that needs completing. If the thunderstorm and the migraine start, then they should end. And Carla* shouldn’t make a one-off appearance.

Finishing the arc made me revisit and revise the beginning too. I have a feeling I’m not done with this poem yet.

Current Version:

Bad Head

Carla came to visit, so did
a thunderstorm hovering over
the city’s streets. She can’t see
the jagged edges slice my face
open, the weight pressing
skull down. Her voice
is 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 plugging sky
into earth, flashing down sight’s
erratic lines.

Clocks count
the seconds between crashes
as drugs slip into cells’ grim
spaces, pushing veins apart
so blood can breathe. The wind
curls leaves around its fingers, sweeping
the road dry, letting starlight shine
in a few small puddles. This
is the way earth calms itself, singing
to worms as they inch their way
home, fearing the morning’s
beak. I rest, sofa-bound, each nerve
a crumpled piece of tissue,
as Carla pours tea.

*You should try to see Carla too. She’s got a magnificent voice and is a superb actress. Check her website to see if she’s coming soon to a city near you.