Before and after, an exercize.

[todski28]

My Children, Of Course, Are Grown Now

They're all young adults
in different parts of the country.
I don’t really wonder what they look like.

And yet these memories
somehow bring them back to me:
Elizabeth had brown solemn eyes;
Harry, still that cheeky grin?
Gabrielle and Jeremy, what are they like?

You start to notice things:
the wind in the trees,
the crunch of dry leaves,
the smell of a book,
the beautiful trim
on the edge of a table,
the first sip of wine.

There’s a touch of frost on the windowsill.
The moon perhaps is still in the sky.
In the distance a morning train rushes by.


Insight

They're all young adults
in different parts of the country.
I try to wonder what they look like
because there are these memories
that somehow bring them back to me:

Elizabeth had solemn brown eyes;
Harry, still that cheeky grin?
Gabrielle and Jeremy, two toddlers then,
I wonder what they're like
as I listen to the wind in the trees
and smell Margaret's morning coffee.

It's time she put the storm windows up,
for there's frost that makes my fingers stick
on the north facing window sill.
Maybe the full moon is still in the sky.
In the distance a morning train rushes by.

Unfortunately my reading is a bit clouded by your explanation of the first poem, however understaning the intent of the piece I can say the second is much clearer

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Ghosts of North Beach

In Washington Square Park
the poetry sells
for a dollar a page
rough handed manuscripts
faintly echo a beat
as recollections of martyrs, saints
and ancient superstitions
seep through windows, doors -- and more.

They're spread on tables
with jagged rock paperweights
edges flutter in a breeze
that whispers of ghosts
you can almost hear
a soft, kaddish howl
over shuffled paper
and around a corner

a swirl of leaves
settles on the road
the sounds of Coney Island
pause in your mind
as for a moment you wonder
"Are they calling me?"
You pay your dollar
and read another poem.



North Beach

Washington Square
poetry sells
a dollar a page
manuscripts
faint echoes
martyrs
seep through windows.

On tables
rock paperweights
as edges flutter
whispers,
ghosts you almost...

Soft howl
shuffled paper
a swirl of leaves
settles on the
sound -- Coney Island
in your mind,
"Calling me?"

Pay a dollar
read another.

For me the narrative works better in the longer version,
the flow runs better,

The second seems a bit choppy.

Love the use of "soft howl" and its duality of meaning.
but enhoyed reading both.

I agree. I really liked the first version.

 

[Angeline]

I've just read through all the poems in this thread. In most cases I prefer the original version or maybe would like to see a compromise somewhere between the "befores" and the "afters." The originals all have some great, knock-you-out lines and some overindulgence or unnecessary wordiness here and there. They also are equally atmospheric and narrative (as "befores"), but most of what is cut takes away the atmosphere. The "afters" seem somewhat flattened as a result.

This is a great exercise, but I wonder what the authors think of it. Does reducing your poem down to the bone help you see what needs to be put back or revised? Do you prefer the shortened version?

I'm trying not to be nostalgic-- The Ghosts of North Beach, for example, has been a favorite of mine here for a long time. To me, the revision needs more atmosphere. There's not enough there now for me as a reader to suspend my disbelief and sink into the world of the poem. Pornography seems to fare best as an "after," but that might be because the poem is about urgency and the reduction quickens the pace.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I've just read through all the poems in this thread. In most cases I prefer the original version or maybe would like to see a compromise somewhere between the "befores" and the "afters." The originals all have some great, knock-you-out lines and some overindulgence or unnecessary wordiness here and there. They also are equally atmospheric and narrative (as "befores"), but most of what is cut takes away the atmosphere. The "afters" seem somewhat flattened as a result.

This is a great exercise, but I wonder what the authors think of it. Does reducing your poem down to the bone help you see what needs to be put back or revised? Do you prefer the shortened version?

I'm trying not to be nostalgic-- The Ghosts of North Beach, for example, has been a favorite of mine here for a long time. To me, the revision needs more atmosphere. There's not enough there now for me as a reader to suspend my disbelief and sink into the world of the poem. Pornography seems to fare best as an "after," but that might be because the poem is about urgency and the reduction quickens the pace.

That's a tough question, Angie. I don't consider anything I post a final version. There's always an element of risk of something lost. For example, my poems were about a blind man. Some were confused about that in the original. I wanted some confusion at the beginning of the poem, not at the end. Furthermore, I thought the original suggested estrangement on the part of the children, which I didn't want. That said, I thought S3 in the original was effective, yet I couldn't seem to retain it in the edited version, although in the next version, I'll probably try to work it back in.

 

[Angeline]

That's a tough question, Angie. I don't consider anything I post a final version. There's always an element of risk of something lost. For example, my poems were about a blind man. Some were confused about that in the original. I wanted some confusion at the beginning of the poem, not at the end. Furthermore, I thought the original suggested estrangement on the part of the children, which I didn't want. That said, I thought S3 in the original was effective, yet I couldn't seem to retain it in the edited version, although in the next version, I'll probably try to work it back in.

Thanks for this thoughtful and logical answer. I agree that poems are never really done. We learn and grow over time. We can go back to poems and see new ways to improve them. And this is a great exercise for helping one get rid of unnecessary verbiage--and maybe get a clearer idea of what one wants to say.

In your poem I still wouldn't get that the narrator is blind though the revised S3 strongly alludes to that. I wonder if changing the title could help clarify that.

As for the original S3, you're keeping it tucked away, right? Another rule of poetry (imho) is don't throw anything out cause you never know where you can use it again.

 

[ishtat]

I've just read through all the poems in this thread. In most cases I prefer the original version or maybe would like to see a compromise somewhere between the "befores" and the "afters." The originals all have some great, knock-you-out lines and some overindulgence or unnecessary wordiness here and there. They also are equally atmospheric and narrative (as "befores"), but most of what is cut takes away the atmosphere. The "afters" seem somewhat flattened as a result.

Do you think Angeline that your preferences might be influenced by the very fact that you read the original first. Might ones judgement be different if the first experience was of the uncluttered version? My thought is that to some extent the first reading, whatever it is, may develop in ones mind in a particular point of view.

It might be an interesting exercise if a different poet did the uncluttering.

 

[Angeline]

Do you think Angeline that your preferences might be influenced by the very fact that you read the original first. Might ones judgement be different if the first experience was of the uncluttered version? My thought is that to some extent the first reading, whatever it is, may develop in ones mind in a particular point of view.

It might be an interesting exercise if a different poet did the uncluttering.

I do have expectations about poems I remember--I'm sure we all do. Maybe I would feel differently if I only saw the "afters" and was unfamiliar with the "befores." It depends on the poem, I guess. I used to like to read big narrative poems best, but in the past few years especially I've come to appreciate how much can be said with few words--like William Carlos Williams (for one example).

And I agree it would be interesting to try this exercise with someone new doing the revisions though I'm always wary about suggesting too many changes to someone else's poem. I have my own sense of what makes poetry good, but it isn't necessarily another person's. I don't want to impose my style on someone else, you know? There's a fine line between making what one sees as improvements and rewriting to suit one's own style.

Nice seeing you posting here, Ishtat.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Personally I have no problem having others suggest changes to my stuff, it all helps whether I adopt it or not because it's good to see it though others' eyes. I like the idea that a poem is the distillation, the essence of a thought, view or story and that's what I aim for, most of the time. I do like to see the original beside the edited work and see the changes made.

 

[Piscator]

Sisyphus’ dream

i work hard, Sir
and well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked harder, Sir
still well, Sir
but you said it
was not enough

So i worked faster, Sir
and longer, Sir
but not so well, Sir
and my kids forgot my face.
To my disgrace, Sir
you said the quality my work
had dropped
and still was not enough

So i work harder, Sir
still well Sir
and wait for the day, Sir
with your behind me, Sir
i step aside, Sir
and let you taste my rock.
__________________________________________________

i work hard, Sir
and well, Sir
but you said
'twas not enough

So i worked harder, Sir
still well, Sir
but you said
'twas not enough

So i worked faster, Sir
and longer, Sir
but not so well, Sir
and my kids forgot my face.
To my distress, Sir
you said my work's quality
had dropped and still
'twas not enough

So i work harder, Sir
still well Sir
and wait for the day, Sir
with your behind me, Sir
i step aside, Sir
and let you taste my rock
mayhaps twill be enough
_________________________________________________________

sketched at work on a glorious Sunday when i should have been walking through the changing colors with my family

 

[champagne1982]

I do have expectations about poems I remember--I'm sure we all do. Maybe I would feel differently if I only saw the "afters" and was unfamiliar with the "befores." It depends on the poem, I guess. I used to like to read big narrative poems best, but in the past few years especially I've come to appreciate how much can be said with few words--like William Carlos Williams (for one example).

And I agree it would be interesting to try this exercise with someone new doing the revisions though I'm always wary about suggesting too many changes to someone else's poem. I have my own sense of what makes poetry good, but it isn't necessarily another person's. I don't want to impose my style on someone else, you know? There's a fine line between making what one sees as improvements and rewriting to suit one's own style.

Nice seeing you posting here, Ishtat.

maybe we can perform an edit on a classic poem. Each of us the same piece just to see how we would like to hear it... or something

 

[Angeline]

maybe we can perform an edit on a classic poem. Each of us the same piece just to see how we would like to hear it... or something

Ok but I need another week or so to write hendecasyllabic lines. I'm just starting to really get it and I want it to stick. Also spondees.

 

[greenmountaineer]

BEFORE

A Curtal Sonnet for Frank O'Hara

"They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Son
of Baʿal," Frank said. "Because their boy was flayed,
crowned, and crucified, the Jew baiters tore
down shtetls and ghettos, hunting Sanhedrin
chums. Ain't nothin' like a good crusade."

LEVITICUS 18 VERSE 22
~
A MAN WHO LAYS WITH ANOTHER HAS SINNED

the picket signs near Fire Island read.
"See the cute little tilde, Lou? Do You,
Mister Sun?" Frank said.

AFTER

Frank, Lou, and God

They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Ron
or Jesse, Man, their black and white lies sprayed
with quotes on poster boards. They look to score
more goats to banish from their nation.

Ain't nothing like another new crusade.

Leviticus 18 verse 22
Repent! It is abomination!

You ever wonder why they're so afraid?

For Chrissakes, Lou. They think this is how you
praise him.

 

[Piscator]

BEFORE

A Curtal Sonnet for Frank O'Hara

"They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Son
of Baʿal," Frank said. "Because their boy was flayed,
crowned, and crucified, the Jew baiters tore
down shtetls and ghettos, hunting Sanhedrin
chums. Ain't nothin' like a good crusade."

LEVITICUS 18 VERSE 22
~
A MAN WHO LAYS WITH ANOTHER HAS SINNED

the picket signs near Fire Island read.
"See the cute little tilde, Lou? Do You,
Mister Sun?" Frank said.

AFTER

Frank, Lou, and God

They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Ron
or Jesse, Man, their black and white lies sprayed
with quotes on poster boards. They look to score
more goats to banish from their nation.

Ain't nothing like another new crusade.

Leviticus 18 verse 22
Repent! It is abomination!

You ever wonder why they're so afraid?

For Chrissakes, Lou. They think this is how you
praise him.

As often GM's poetry sent me off to Wikipedia, in this case for "Curtal Sonnet" and Leviticus 18. And both the the tilde and reference to it are cute.

In what seems to be a trend, I like the first better.

 

[HarryHill]

BEFORE

A Curtal Sonnet for Frank O'Hara

"They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Son
of Baʿal," Frank said. "Because their boy was flayed,
crowned, and crucified, the Jew baiters tore
down shtetls and ghettos, hunting Sanhedrin
chums. Ain't nothin' like a good crusade."

LEVITICUS 18 VERSE 22
~
A MAN WHO LAYS WITH ANOTHER HAS SINNED

the picket signs near Fire Island read.
"See the cute little tilde, Lou? Do You,
Mister Sun?" Frank said.

AFTER

Frank, Lou, and God

They transubstantiate him more and more.
It wouldn't matter, Lou, if he were Ron
or Jesse, Man, their black and white lies sprayed
with quotes on poster boards. They look to score
more goats to banish from their nation.

Ain't nothing like another new crusade.

Leviticus 18 verse 22
Repent! It is abomination!

You ever wonder why they're so afraid?

For Chrissakes, Lou. They think this is how you
praise him.

As often GM's poetry sent me off to Wikipedia, in this case for "Curtal Sonnet" and Leviticus 18. And both the the tilde and reference to it are cute.

In what seems to be a trend, I like the first better.

Yeah, gm'll make you crazy sometimes, I didn't bother chasing 'Curtal', began counting syllables, shook my head and just read... I really like the first first stanza. I think editing is sometimes like trying to build a better mouse trap when you should just buy a cat

 

[champagne1982]

BEFORE

Thrown Clay

It's enough that her hands
warm the clay and smooth
the surface even as she moulds
folds and creases in a spiral
down the barber-pole hardness.
She loves this work, fabricating
something out of clay, as if divine:
She makes him.

He takes shape, round and masculine,
a simulacrum of Adam with feet
of clay, waiting for Her to descend
and breathe life into this, Her Art.
She accepts this divinity as her fingers
sweep along his rigid symbology.

Her new religion allows
this manifestation of the need
that, clasped tightly in her hands,
consumes her as she holds
this symbol out, in offering,
to her mother goddess. Phallus,
fertility and ritual, sublimating
need through Her art
in a garage-studio out back,
behind the kitchen of her reality.
________________________________________________

AFTER

Thrown Clay

Her hands smooth
the clay, mold folds
and creases in spiral
curls down the barber
pole shape. She loves
to fabricate the male
from earth; round
and masculine. An Adam
with feet of clay waiting
for divinity to descend
and breathe life into her art.

Clasped tight in her hand
she holds the symbol
of her new religion, fingers
sweep along the phallic
cylinder until they curl
around it and thrust it forward
in offering to her goddess.
Fertility and ritual burying
need through her art
in a garage-studio behind
the kitchen of her reality.

 

[greenmountaineer]

If we had an "erotic art challenge," champ, this would win hands down. Pardon the pun.

 

[greenmountaineer]

As often GM's poetry sent me off to Wikipedia, in this case for "Curtal Sonnet" and Leviticus 18. And both the the tilde and reference to it are cute.

In what seems to be a trend, I like the first better.

You're probably right, Piscator(still trying to figure out your moniker; sounds fishy)

The problem with the first is it wasn't really a curtal sonnet. A better edit would have been to remove any reference to the form in the original title, which I've done in my master file. My thanks to you and Harry for the comments.

(I think it's time for me to go back to free verse where it's easier for me to stay out of trouble.)

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

If we had an "erotic art challenge," champ, this would win hands down. Pardon the pun.

That is a special poem, Carrie. Perhaps we should have an "erotic art challenge'" gm.

 

[champagne1982]

If we had an "erotic art challenge," champ, this would win hands down. Pardon the pun.

Thank you! But which version? I like the after, the innuendos are more blatant.

 

[champagne1982]

That is a special poem, Carrie. Perhaps we should have an "erotic art challenge'" gm.

And thank you, too. I wrote this when I first met Butters on another board, in the foggy past.

What of this Erotic Art Challenge?

 

[greenmountaineer]

If we had an "erotic art challenge," champ, this would win hands down. Pardon the pun.

Thank you! But which version? I like the after, the innuendos are more blatant.

Yes, after.

 

[butters]

before:

the salt marsh
is beautiful
when viewed from above
mud and brine transformed
to shining flats etched with fractals
patterns that glitter in the light of day
glimmer
beneath moon and stars

how far away it seems
how long
since first we sprang from soil
tiny rivulets
kissed by grass
trickled
as streams
counting gravel in our beds
swelled
cut through steep-banked valleys
fields of grain alike
felt the rush of power fed by rains
were spurred
by the knowledge of mortality

till we found pleasure
in taking just a little time
to meander in thought
reflect on blue or stormy skies
and how it feels to harbour precious
life that seems to open up
even as we're shaped by silt

till
here we are
spilled, joined,
contemplating beauty in our now
curling round
splitting into intricacies
delicate capillaries
before time and tide claim us
and we reach our endless sea




after:

time and tide...

the salt marsh
is beautiful
when viewed from above
mud and brine transformed
to shining flats etched with fractals
patterns that glitter in the light of day
glimmer
beneath moon and stars

how
far away it seems
how long
since first we sprang from soil as ti-
-ny rivulets kissing grass
or trickled
as streams
counting gravel in our beds

inundated by the rains
how we swelled
powered by that rush
to carve deep valleys
flood fields of grain alike
spurred on
by tastes of our mortality

till life's terrain slowed us
somehow discovered pleasure
in taking just a little time
to meander in our thoughts
reflect on blue or stormy skies
and how it feels to harbour precious
life that seems to open up
even as we're shaped by silt

well. here we are
spilled, joined,
contemplating beauty in our now
curling round
splitting into intricacies
delicate capillaries
before time and tide claim us
and we reach our endless sea

------------------------------------------------------
think i've lost some of the simplicity that worked in the original's favour. probably need to find a middle ground by revisiting later.

 

[Piscator]

before:
the salt marsh
is beautiful
when viewed from above
mud and brine transformed
to shining flats etched with fractals
patterns that glitter in the light of day
glimmer
beneath moon and stars

how far away it seems
how long
since first we sprang from soil
tiny rivulets
kissed by grass
trickled
as streams
counting gravel in our beds
swelled
cut through steep-banked valleys
fields of grain alike
felt the rush of power fed by rains
were spurred
by the knowledge of mortality

till we found pleasure
in taking just a little time
to meander in thought
reflect on blue or stormy skies
and how it feels to harbour precious
life that seems to open up
even as we're shaped by silt

till
here we are
spilled, joined,
contemplating beauty in our now
curling round
splitting into intricacies
delicate capillaries
before time and tide claim us
and we reach our endless sea

after:

time and tide...

the salt marsh
is beautiful
when viewed from above
mud and brine transformed
to shining flats etched with fractals
patterns that glitter in the light of day
glimmer
beneath moon and stars

how
far away it seems
how long
since first we sprang from soil as ti-
-ny rivulets kissing grass
or trickled
as streams
counting gravel in our beds

inundated by the rains
how we swelled
powered by that rush
to carve deep valleys
flood fields of grain alike
spurred on
by tastes of our mortality

till life's terrain slowed us
somehow discovered pleasure
in taking just a little time
to meander in our thoughts
reflect on blue or stormy skies
and how it feels to harbour precious
life that seems to open up
even as we're shaped by silt

well. here we are
spilled, joined,
contemplating beauty in our now
curling round
splitting into intricacies
delicate capillaries
before time and tide claim us
and we reach our endless sea

------------------------------------------------------
think I've lost some of the simplicity that worked in the original's favour. probably need to find a middle ground by revisiting later.

I too like the first one better - sometimes with revision we get too cute by half
othertimes??????

I like the salt marsh image,although I know little of that habitat. Once on an early summer canoe trip I saw so meting similar, where the coloured pollen on the lakes surface was so thick it looked like lava flows or those little sand picture frames where you get an different combination each time you turn it over.

 

[Piscator]

cusp

on the cusp
of nothingness
endless days
stretch before me
full of motion
empty of content
like these cars
creepin along this highway
arriving late
just in time
to return

on the radio
Bach “St. Matthew’s Passion”
jazz piano
runs icicles
down my spine
sensation
without meaning

ask me no questions
i have no answers
and i tell no lies

_______________________________________________
cusp-take two/too

on the cusp
of nothingness
as the day
stretches before me
and these cars
creep along
the highway
to arrive
just in time
to return
full of motion
empty of content

on the radio
Bach “St. Matthew’s Passion”
then jazz piano
runs icicles
down my spine
sensation
without meaning

i ask no questions
i have no answers
and i tell no lies

 

[butters]

I too like the first one better - sometimes with revision we get too cute by half
othertimes??????

I like the salt marsh image,although I know little of that habitat. Once on an early summer canoe trip I saw so meting similar, where the coloured pollen on the lakes surface was so thick it looked like lava flows or those little sand picture frames where you get an different combination each time you turn it over.

i tend to revise as i go, then once i've hit submit it's harder for me to make changes that work. unless it's years down the line

but i've just posted this in writing live, and i'm not happy with it so will tinker here a bit.

nude in a midnight lake

she floats
heavenly body in black silk ripples
on a vast expanse of bed in a room all
starless night
where the lustre of her flesh
holds the wolfman in thrall
howls caught in his throat
reluctant to break the silence
to shatter liquid image
celestial in his eye



nude in a midnight lake

she floats
heavenly body in black silk
ripples
on a vast expanse of bed in a
room all starless night
where the lustre of her flesh
holds the wolf in thrall
howl caught in his throat
reluctant to break the silence
scatter her celestial image
on the dark pool of his eye