Watch Me Edit

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Poetry and Art

Last December, Arc Poetry Magazine invited me to take part in a cool project: a game of telephone tag involving six poets and five artists. Each of us were to be inspired by the work immediately before us then hand ours over to the next in line.

David O’Meara led off with his excellent poem ‘The Throw’ from which Andrew Farrell created a powerful painting, Flight Club, and then it was my turn.

When we were all done, David wrote a closing poem to sum it all up. You can see the results in Arc’s Poetry Annual 2011 by visiting your local bookstore. It’s worth buying as there are other wonderful poetry/art collaborations in there too. Mind you, it’s always worth buying Arc. We learn by doing and reading.

This project was special for me. I grew up in a house furnished in early Kmart so when I discovered beauty at university, I was instantly addicted. A friend undertook my education, giving me Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and D. H. Lawrence to read, taking me to art galleries, and introducing me to fresh vegetables. Since then, beauty has been a necessary part of my life. I’ve belonged to art galleries wherever I lived.

So I was happy I was assigned to follow Andy. He paints beautiful pictures. And he was generous with his time and his self. He invited me over to see Flight Club (it’s big), served cookies and tea, then left me alone. I sat on the floor before it for a long time, capturing the thoughts and images that came flooding in. It wasn’t hard. Andy had painted onto a rough-hewn piece of wood that he’d further worked over. The piece had texture. Bite. I could see so much depth in it.

Later, we talked about what had been in his mind while he worked on it. Not about the poem that had inspired it—that wasn’t allowed. But life stuff. His and mine. I left his house that day with lots of photos and rich ideas and I spent the next two weeks going back and forth between them.

By the time my deadline was up, I had four poems written. None looked good in their original draft. But after polishing, I had to choose one to submit. Here it is in the rough along with Andy’s painting:

First Version
Looking For You

Flight Club, Andrew Farrell

It happens. You make it look so smooth
when it’s not. The gouging of skin into earth. Toss a ball
in the air and Pluto disappears, planets become moons
looking for classification. Ice doesn’t melt
gouges land in waves as it retreats
over your landscape, throwing rocks
onto hills. The land is as harsh
as we are. Pluto is a ball of ice. Don’t land there
without a mask. Insulation. A catcher’s mitt
will not sustain you this time. Reach further
into the space in between, learn to map
the blackness with words, inch
by square inch. It is our only tool
for computation.

Where did this come from? Well first, I’m an astronut. As a child, I longed to go into space. See planets float by. I read sci fi by the bushel. Was I thinking of this when I saw Andy’s poem? No. But that sense of longing, of displacement, came through. And there’s that beautiful unmapped black space I couldn’t resist. I kept the baseball imagery but I translated it as I worked through my thoughts about relationships.

You can see from the first draft that I was feeling my way into this poem. By the end, you can see why I decided to go with it. The last half of this poem came out fully formed. This is very rare for me.

So my work here was to tighten the first half, honing and honing until it matched the crispness of the end. I also had to make it factually correct. My personal geographer pointed out that if the ice isn’t melting, it’s advancing.

This isn’t an easy poem. Much work is left for the reader to do. But I’m fond of it.

Final Version:

Looking For You

It happens. Toss a ball in the air
and Pluto disappears, a planet
in need of classification. Ice doesn’t melt,
scrapes earth as it advances
over your landscape, throwing rocks
onto hills. Terrain as harsh
as we are. Pluto is a ball of ice. Don’t land there
without a mask. Insulation.
A catcher’s mitt will not sustain you
this time. Reach further
into the space in between, learn to map
the blackness with words, inch
by square inch. It is our only tool
for computation.

I also am very happy that Marisa Gallemit was the artist who came after me. She only had two weeks—with a deadline of Christmas Day—to create something out of my poem. She stinted on her presents that year, choosing to regard my poem as a gift instead of a nuisance, honouring it with her full attention. She created this beautiful three dimensional piece.

Looking for You V2.0, Marisa Gallemit

Do buy Arc‘s Poetry Annual 2011 so you can read and see the rest of the chain. The following is the full list of poets and artists who took part, in the sequence of inspiration: David O’Meara, Andrew Farrell, Gillian Wallace, Marisa Gallemit, Barbara Myers, Maria Lezon, Max Middle, Andrea Stokes, Sandra Ridley, Abi Lyon Wicke, and Michelle Desbarats.

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Well I did it.

Last Monday, I set myself a goal of getting my novel, Diary of an Angry Woman, out the door by Friday. I’d sat on the finished version for a couple of years, always convinced I could make it better, picking away at final edits that never stopped.

And then I read a stern posting by Robert Sawyer giving his comments on Heinlein’s Rules for writing success. I got there via the poet and novelist Jonathon Ball’s excellent website, which I highly recommend. Both gave me that kick I needed to push my baby out. And so, Friday night, just after midnight, I walked to the mailbox and sent it off to Anansi. I want to work with Melanie Little. She produces wonderful books.

Next up? Poems. It’s time they started leaving the house too. I have sent almost none out for months, concentrating instead on writing, editing, and getting this website going. Good excuses but not. Jonathon Ball says do it all, recommending that we work steadily at each project every day. I’ve decided to start taking his advice.

So I’ll be adding 500 words a day on the new novel to my daily routine and I’m committing to mailing poems out to journals once a week. Hopefully even while I’m at Banff for the Wired Writing Studio in October.

Will I fall down on this schedule, which also has to include my copyediting job? Yes. There will be days I won’t make it, especially given my blinking health. Fear will also get in my way. I know I will sit glaring at the blank page. Or worse, I’ll play Freecell. Check out Facebook. It can take me hours to find my way into working.

But I want to do this. I’ve learned the joy of discipline from writing a poem a day. I can’t tell you what a relief it is, even when I desperately don’t want to do it.

I couldn’t have done any of this a year ago. I was in a much blacker space then. Still dealing with issues from my childhood. But really good therapy (thanks Virginia) and bloody-minded determination has seen me through. I recommend both.

The new space I’m in is the subject of today’s poem. It may well end up as the last one in a book I’m slowly putting together.

First Draft:
On The Other Side Now, Looking Back

Perfect. That’s how the afternoon’s been.
Just the right combination of you,
drizzle from the grey smudged sky,
leaves scuffling underfoot as we walked
from house to house, each one
a painted cocoon, a nest
for the artist inside, most containing
a gem, a spark for the coals burning low
within me. I’m on the other side now,
no longer the one looking out
as others passed by, wondering how
they did it,
not in disasters but on the right side
of benediction living in
the land of no disaster, a hope,
a fairy tale I used
to sing myself to sleep but never
believed. I buy a painting and watch
her face light up and am content.

I stopped and wrote this poem when I was out walking with my husband, going from house to house for CATwalk, the Centretown Art Tour here in Ottawa. It was drizzling all right, so we found a tree and my husband held an umbrella over my head. The words wanted out.

I’d been trying to write this poem for a few weeks but couldn’t figure out how to capture the concept of being on the other side. In the past, I would have identified with the flood victims in Pakistan. I’m not exaggerating. Nor am I minimizing their suffering. My childhood was a train wreck of the sort you read about in newspapers.

But I’m no longer there. Unfortunately though, happiness rarely makes for good literature. It took me a long time to find the language to convey how strange it is to be on the bright side. So when the words came, I listened.

Unfortunately, the ending didn’t show up. Or at least, not one I was happy with. Yes, I’m no longer dirt poor. But that’s not what I wanted this poem to say. I’m not totally pleased with this alternative but after many attempts, it’s what I’ve got for now.

Current Version:

On The Other Side Now, Looking Back

Gillian reading at Barely Their Launch, Blink Gallery, Ottawa

Perfect. That’s how the afternoon’s been.
Just the right combination of you,
leaves scuffling underfoot, and drizzle drifting
from a grey smudged sky as we went
from house to house, each one
a painted cocoon, a nest
for the artist inside, containing
a spark for the coals
in me. I’m on the other side now,
no longer the one looking out, the one living
with ripped nightgown syndrome. I’m on
the right side of benediction living in
the land of no disaster, a hope,
a fairy tale I used
to sing myself to sleep but never
believed. I’m on
the happy side of life wearing
a pretty coat, the girl with the good guy
by her side walking down the paved roads.

This poem was read at the launch of the Barely Their Poetry Obelisk, outside Blink Gallery, Ottawa on Sept 18, 2010. Poet Pearl Pirie and artists Lynda Cronin, Jean Jewer, and Maureen Sandrock created the beautiful pillar.

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Friends often ask me if I’m going to write a poem about their birthday or an outing we’ve had. While I don’t make any guarantees, sometimes the muse does kick an appropriate poem my way. It isn’t always a good idea (sorry Robin). My poems often tend to the dark side even if what I’m looking at is wonderful.

I’ll explain the reason for that in future postings. Today I want to concentrate on what happens during the editing process, the transition from truth to fiction.

This poem was written after a lovely day at our friends’ country place. The, um, house is 9’ by 12’ (with a loft!) so needless to say, it has a separate outhouse which the guys built first. I love the whole property but I have to tell you, the view from that outhouse is sublime. So when they asked if I was going to write a poem to it, I sure as hell hoped I would. And that it would turn out positively (sorry Robin!). I got lucky:

First Draft:
View

It’s not the most kingly of thrones, not
draped in silks or velvets or even
dry-panelled. Birds had nested
on a ledge near where heads go, mice
had left offerings underfoot,
while a silver-crusted lizard watches
eyelessly from above. You’ve scythed
the path clear to the door, checked
for skunks, foxes, the land’s
owners before you. And now I sit
gazing on summer’s late greens, the trees
heavy, downcast with rain’s fall, the sky
soft watercolour greys mixed
with the bruises of plums. No door
was part of your building plans, just this
chance to see bears approach, black
through bracken turning autumn’s early
gold. Berries hang dripping as wind slips
through. I linger, feasting on your view.

Now, I made a few of my usual mistakes when getting this down. I set my standard riddle for the reader, the guessing game of what the poem is about. I don’t even want to think at what line they might have figured it out. I just want to fix the problem. How to do it this time? I rejected the first title that sprang to mind: ‘The View While Peeing’. Perhaps something a little more subtle. For now, I’ve settled on ‘Outhouse Sitting’. Because I find titles such a struggle, I’m going to take Ronnie Brown’s workshop, Writing a Winning Title at Tree Reading Series on November 9th.

My next problem was bigger. True details don’t always make for good poetry. Yes, Albert had removed the bird’s nest and mouse droppings before we came. Much appreciated. But the past tense doesn’t work without a lot of explanation I have no intention of going into. So, sorry to undo your hard work, Albert, but that nest is back up on its ledge and those mice are hard at work again.

Then I heightened the bear threat because I want that sense of menace in this poem, the transition from velvets to implied teeth. It wasn’t there — we didn’t even wear orange vests to avoid hunters. It was a safe trip. But safety doesn’t make for great poetry so I emphasize the bear hunting on the property. And the risk.

Finally, I didn’t walk back whistling. I love silence. I stood listening on the path. Walked slowly as laughter rose from the house. But what’s below is the ending the poem needed. And the poem’s truth, its integrity, is the most important thing here. After all, this isn’t titled True Story.

Current Version:

Outhouse Sitting

It’s not the most kingly of thrones, not
draped in silks or velvets or even
dry-panelled. Sparrows stack
twigs at head level, mice leave
their little crunches underfoot, while a silver
flecked lizard guards eyelessly from above.
You’ve scythed the path clear to the door, checked
for skunks, foxes, the land’s owners
before you. And now I sit
surveying trees the colour of evergreens
in winter, downcast with rain’s fall, the sky
soft greys mixed with the bruises of plums,
smoke rising on the horizon. No door
was part of your plans, just this:
the convenience of watching through bracken
turning autumn’s early gold for black bear
approaching, for black bear hunting
for berries hanging dripping as wind slips through.
I’m lucky today. Walk back whistling.

p.s. This is my second poem on this website written to views from the loo (See Watch Me Edit for the first). All I can say is that it’s really important to pay attention to inspiration wherever it happens.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about poetry’s health lately. Too often I feel it’s the wallflower in book review sections, never mind in people’s lives. Who really cares about the art we’re so passionate about? We know it can change lives, but does anyone else?

I feel better after reading this wonderful piece by Charles Simic, the former US poet laureate. He’s right – there’s poetry happening everywhere: on the web, in universities, and even in bars. In my home town, Ottawa, Canada, we have the Tree Reading Series, one of Canada’s oldest, plus a host of others, all surprisingly well-attended. See ByWords’ Calendar of Literary Events.

What gives me real heart is an In/Words reading I attended recently. In/Words (on Facebook) is traditionally aimed at the university crowd, and even though it was a rainy summer night the place was full of young people. Despite all predictions of the death of poetry, poetry is still hot.

But it’s growing and changing too. There’s wonderful visual poetry: see derek beaulieu and Amanda Earl’s new work (which I love).

And there’s also a new stream marrying word and image interactively online. Take a look at J. R. Carpenter’s webpage, Lucky Soap, especially Entre Ville (click on the windows). She’s one of my heroes. After seeing her present her work last March at Carleton University, I went home and wrote the following:

Illuminated

for J. R. Carpenter

The ancient monks did it, dipping
quills into colours that still glow
around the edges of their words
angels hovering above
townspeople in their markets
a baby here, a donkey carrying
bread on the next golden
page. Even the first letter
of a poem could be a serpent
unto itself, coiled with the gleam
of mis-spent life, a warning
to readers of what lies
ahead. Ah, but these pictures
were for the ignorant
a friend says, images to carry
where words can’t. No
matter. The two together
are lovelier
than this page.

As you can see by looking ahead to the final version below, this poem didn’t require a huge edit. It’s one of those rare ‘gift’ poems, where many images came out fully formed. Other images, however, did require more visualization. I didn’t want the angels to just hover over the townspeople but there wasn’t space in this poem for too much detail. So, after several attempts, I settled on a single, tight phrase, one that allows readers to supply their own wings. A couple of drafts laid cucumbers and cabbages on the market stalls but they were obtrusive and got cut in favour of the simplicity of the patron who was always pictured being generous.

These changes were made on posting day; an older version of this poem can be seen on the Tree Reading Series website, as I gave it as a sample of my work for my reading as part of the Hot Ottawa Voices. But in my poems, change is a constant. I love editing poetry.

One last note: I deliberately left the word ‘No’ as a line ending. I wanted to refute the reason my friend gave for illuminated manuscripts, even though I know she’s technically correct (I still like to think the monks were having fun). By leaving ‘No’ hanging there, readers hear it before they continue on to my real use. I learned this trick from an online critique (sadly before I knew to save links). There is so much to learn from reading what others see in great poetry – check out Arc Poetry Magazine’s How Poems Work.

Here’s the (current) final version.

Illuminated

for J. R. Carpenter

The ancient monks did it, dipping
quills into colours that still
glow around the edges
of their words, angels hovering
wing-spread above townspeople
in their markets, a king’s
purpled horse prancing
by a wailing child, coin flashing
while a donkey carries
bread on the next golden
page. Even the first letter
of a poem could be a serpent
unto itself, coiled with the gleam
of mis-spent life, a warning
to readers of what lies
ahead. Ah, but those pictures
were for the ignorant,
a friend says, images to carry
what words couldn’t. No
matter. The two together
are lovelier than this page.

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Bodies are like cars: some are lemons. Mine’s not a lemon on a grand scale, like a Toyota with the accelerator stuck to the floor. More a worn-out Chevy with a polished exterior which fools those who don’t look under the hood.

Periodically I write poems to my body, like throwing a biscuit to a snarly dog. Earlier attempts were dismal flops. After all, pain is not a popular party guest.

But I’ve kept trying, figuring the more I learn about language, the better my skills for conveying that four letter word. Talk about a poetry walk – this one’s internal.

At last, I think I’m getting there, though the first draft wasn’t promising:

Sleepless

It’s not a matter of sleeping
on clouds, no lift of air
holds without
a touch. It’s not the warm
slosh of water giving way
beneath a hip’s pressing
weight. It’s not the sharpness
of spring coiled beneath
the chemical of foam
layers. It’s latex, natural
outpouring from an injured
tree that lies spread
beneath my aching joints.

It doesn’t help. I try again,
learn to lie straight-legged
in bed, to leave womb’s curl
behind, try to ease the cramp my mind
knows by heart. But this highway
has traffic that does not stop,
nerves flash code even
scientists can’t decode.
I roll again.

Sleepless has been through so many revisions, it’s kept me up at night. But it needed it. Since I wrote it at 2 am, I wasn’t paying the kind of attention to detail I’ve been working on. For example, I never stopped to ask whether the title conveyed the meaning of the poem. Or what the opening ‘It’s’ referred to, the one repeated in the next three sentences. In both cases, I was committing one of my usual sins: assuming too much. I may know what the poem’s about, but if my readers don’t, the poem fails.

Having fixed those issues, I next had to deal with mixed metaphors. Slipping traffic in at 2 am is excusable. Allowing it to stay is not. Yes, doctors now speak of pain highways in the body. Someday, I’ll work on a poem with space for naming that road. But this one had too many images already. So cut. On to the next draft and the search for images I could slide in, ones that didn’t make my research too obtrusive. The last thing I want is to give the impression of a lecture hall.

So this meant the word ‘mitochondria’ couldn’t be used. But the metaphor ‘tiny power plants’ could. And thanks to my overriding nature theme, it was easy to incorporate the fact that trees have mitochondria too. (I think that is so cool.)

Finally, I needed an ending. Oh endings. I’ve not been brilliant at them in the past. For example, I forgot to write one for the first sermon I gave, so I simply stopped and said, ‘Bye bye.’ Yes. I really did that. In front of a whole church-full of people. Stellar.

I’m getting better at them now, thanks to a wonderful essay by Ottawa poet Barbara Myers in Arc Poetry Magazine’s Winter 2010 issue (see an excerpt here). Now I sit and gaze into space while I ask myself that crucial question: ‘what am I trying to say?’ Once I’ve figured the answer out, not only does the ending usually come, but the whole poem often gets tighter. Someday, I will learn to ask this question earlier in the process. I hope.

Here’s the current draft of this poem – it will be revisited:

Living With Fibro
Myalgia Aches

I’d like to sleep on clouds, the lift of air
holding without a touch. Or on
the warm slosh of water contained
in rubber, to heat my hip’s
pressing bone. At least I gave up
the sharpness of spring coiled
beneath the chemical of foam layers.
Bought latex, nature’s gift
from an injured tree, to conform
to my tender joints, shape-shifter
learning my body’s subtle arch,
passing weight around.

It doesn’t help. I try new tricks, learn
to lie straight legged, leave womb’s curl
behind to ease the cramps my mind
knows by heart. But nerves flash distress
with messages scientists can’t decode.
They point to cells’ hidden contents,
the tiny power plants we share
with trees, the ones that sometimes
go wrong. I turn again, cast my mind
further, away from body’s reach to where
sleep waits, a fog longing to roll in.
Tomorrow will be rough.

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