I’ve been fortunate to have a lot of writing inspiration lately, though I have to say, hearing Barry Dempster read at Ottawa’s first ever VERSeFest was the highlight. I first encountered Barry’s poetry in an online magazine called Paperplates, where I read his poem ‘The Conversation’ about a man contemplating suicide. Here’s the opening:

Some days are sneakers, tramping through
the leaves, slowly getting soaked. Others
are buses, lumbering from pole to pole,
joining dreams with destinations
like a giant Lego set. Today was smaller, …

It’s a breathtaking poem and I wrote my first ever fan mail. I couldn’t help it. I’ve been learning from his poetry ever since, studying the way he uses metaphor to utterly transform the ordinary.

I’ve needed the lessons, since my writing started out as a lot of ‘he said’ and ‘she did’. Poetry’s power lies in its ability to lift the reader above the short story narrative, to take them deeper into an experience.

First drafts of my poems playing with metaphor, however, are likely to be pretty ugly. Take a look at this one:

Hunger goes with every word, is a drawer
where emptiness sits, the plate is a letter
containing no words. You rearrange alphabet soup
in your mind at lunch time, smelling
the peels of oranges in
the garbage. Each rind is a desert
without the sun. You remember the agony of a school
trip where a two dollar bill would buy
a stuffed animal for the loved, two buns and a patty
for the not, you counting the coins left in your hand.

It clearly needed a lot of work. ‘Hunger … is a drawer where emptiness sits’ is redundant and ‘You rearrange alphabet soup in your mind’ is not very subtle. I found by taking out the word alphabet, I could leave the image hanging in the reader’s mind, especially given the previous phrase. I liked the image of the orange rind but simply cut the rest of the poem.

By the second draft, I had a clearer sense of where the poem was going:

“You don’t miss your water till your well runs dry.” William Bell

Some look at the moon, see only a corpse
in the night sky. Hunger goes in cupboards where
dishes sit, bowls holding letters containing no
words. You rearrange soup in your mind
at lunch time, smelling the peels of oranges in
the garbage. Each rind is a desert
without the sun. The smell is strong
in the cafeteria, rising above the wax sandwiches
came in and the chalk bullies draw pictures in the dust
with. Your hair lies like grief
on your skull, limp as the dress your sister wore
before you. It doesn’t matter. No one notices
the new girl sitting with her back
to the wall watching the principal make
his rounds. If you could have, you would have chosen
a mug to hide in, one of the scarred plastic
ones they served cabbage soup in once, you can tell
each time you pick it up. Hopscotch is too
many squares into a future you can’t
believe. If you could, your well would not
run dry.

It’s getting tighter. But there’s a new problem of smell in this version. I’ve got the orange rind smelling stronger than the wax the sandwiches come in. Hmm. Fortunately, I still remember my school cafeterias. It wasn’t hard to fix.

Next: do bullies really draw pictures with chalk? No. So even though fear is an abstract term I wouldn’t normally use in a poem, by changing the chalk to fear, I leave the reader with a more complex image.

I also changed the description of the girl’s hair. I may as well have put up a neon sign at that point. So instead I went for the more subtle ‘mat’. The whole cabbage soup episode just got cut. It didn’t work. In it’s place, I extended the hopscotch metaphor.

Here’s the current version. I don’t think this is one of my best poems. We’ll see what further edits it undergoes.

Looking Ahead

“You don’t miss your water till your well runs dry.” William Bell

Some look at the moon, see only a corpse
in the night sky. Hunger goes in cupboards where
dishes sit, bowls holding letters containing no
words. You rearrange soup in your mind
at lunch time, smelling the peels of oranges in
the garbage. Each rind is a desert
without the sun. The smell is strong
in the cafeteria, rising above the bologna
and the fear bullies draw pictures
in the dust with. Your hair lies like a mat
on your skull, limp as the dress your sister wore
before you. It doesn’t matter. No one notices
the new girl sitting with her back
to the wall watching the principal make
his rounds. If you could, you’d choose
a square to hide in, one of the blank ones not
yet drawn. But hopscotch is too many squares
into a future you can’t believe. If you could,
your well would not run dry.

I was a bit late noticing this as it was posted while we were in Ghana, but poet Pearl Pirie pulled a Gillian and did a ‘watch me edit’ post on her website. Check out her Editing Rounds.