Here’s a twist. Since I’m always reading and editing YOUR poetry, how’s about you edit mine this time? Here’s a rough, rough draft of a long poem I scribbled down last night around 2 am. To give you a little backstory: I live in the Czech Republic. Amid our tight community of ex-pat friends, almost everyone goes away to their home countries or to travel around extensively for the summer. So, following suit, we packed up and left the country we have temporarily adopted to come back “home” (to the US) for almost a month – to see and reconnect with friends and family, to stock up on favorite coffees and Centrum vitamins and Mahatma brand yellow rice that we can’t buy overseas, and to swim for two glorious weeks in the Atlantic Ocean. I swear, living in a landlocked country that doesn’t sell Tollhouse chocolate chips is trying, people.
But you know what else is trying? Not knowing which life I belong to. Am I the American poet, who pens poetry about life in Prague and reads it to my Czech friends so they can understand my impressions of the beautiful and oh-so-confused land of their births? Or am I the southern girl with the worldly aspirations and the unique ability to embarrass my children in public by knowing and singing all the lyrics to 80’s pop songs from Billy Bragg to Jon Bon Jovi? Am I yogi? Frenchie? Editor? Am I all here or all there or caught somewhere in the middle, a protean ocean between two bodies of land? Help me edit this poem. Help me clear up these questions:
Come July, when the small container garden I’d nursed since winter’s breaking
had finally borne its meager offering,
yet green and reminiscent of _________
we exodus’ed that city, stacking the papers on desks,
kenneling the pets,
shuttering the house,
reluctant to pack old dresses into my
new, blue, air-shiny suitcase.
Come the airplanes, the jet lag,
that sleep-coated beast that blurs the edges
of first days’ hey-you’re-back tinged conversations.
Come the tell-us-all-about-it’s after you’ve listened to the
plus-ça-change‘s all around you.
You know, le plus-ça-change, the more thing’s stay the same.
So there’s a few new songs on the radio.
So my brother-in-law’s kid can hold a crayon now,
feed himself grated Parmesan,
the same kind I bought in that cheese market in Amsterdam,
in that bottega next door to Ermano’s flat in Rome,
that potraviny in Vaclavske Naměsti.
Not really the same kind, but close enough
And my old dresses don’t fit exactly the same way,
but close enough.
I search the photos taken of myself during that time
for signs of who I am now, who I have become,
how my new life has changed me.
I swizzle my fingers in the sands tumbled by the Atlantic Ocean
of my youth, my original shoreline.
I was meditating on the whole notion of borderlessness
between human beings.
I was synchronizing my breath
to the tidal in- and exhalations of the water,
pouring endlessly itself.
You know, le plus I fill myself,
le plus I empty out all over again.
And the water rushed up into my pores,
And I became it as it became me.
And I am changed.
And I am permeable.
And I’m irrevocable.
That’s it, friends. That’s my draft. Have at it. You can make suggestions in the Comments box below or email me at emily(at)minervarising(dot)com. The waves are rolling in outside my window. I’m going swimming.
Amsterdam Cheese Market
What a gutsy thing for you to do with a first draft. I believe you that you’ve shared your poem in its initial, glistening-from-the-egg, emergent state. It shines with the middle of the night rapture that has us doing, well, exactly what you did: get it on paper.
I’ve only read it twice, purposely, the better to stay succinct. When I edit poetry – mine or others’ – I begin by paying scrupulous attention to anything that pauses my reading pace. No judgement applies: the pause might be a “Wowee!” or it might be an “oops.” I re-read then, to begin to clarify a possible “why.” A few “oops” from your draft were the garden lines – absolutely needed? The blank might be there for that reason? and enough tense shifts to cause structural confusion.
Plenty of “Wowee!” Among them, the ocean images – swizzling fingers, tide in- and exhaling, and the Parmesan places progression. For me, that last trumped the inclusion of French phrases, since France doesn’t factor as a real place in this poem.
Will close with that overworked phrase: thank you for sharing. Quite true in this case.
I just axed the fluff and left the rest.
Come July, when the small container garden I’d nursed since winter’s breaking
had finally borne its meager offering,
yet green and reminiscent of __hope_______
we exodus’ed that city, stacking the papers on desks,
kenneling the pets,
shuttering the house,
reluctant to pack old dresses into my
new, blue, suitcase.
Come the airplanes, the jet lag,
that sleep-coated beast that blurs the edges
of first days’ hey-you’re-back tinged conversations.
after you’ve listened to the
plus-ça-change‘s all around you.
There are a few new songs on the radio.
So my brother-in-law’s kid can hold a crayon now,
And my old dresses don’t fit exactly the same way,
but close enough.
I search the photos of myself during that time
for signs of who I am now,
how life has changed me.
I swizzle my fingers in the sands tumbled by the Atlantic Ocean
of my youth, my original shoreline.
I meditate on the whole notion of borderlessness
between human beings.
I synchronize my breath
to the tidal in and out of the water,
pouring endlessly of itself.
You know, le plus I fill myself,
le plus I empty out all over again.
I am irrevocable.
Thank you, Jeanne and Misty. Another Minerva, Sarah Edwards, also left some helpful comments for me on my email, and I’ve been carefully reworking the poem. It is always a refreshing reminder to know that the revision process, though grueling, pays off in the end. The poem is coming along nicely.
Take out a late-night “spill” of your own, share it with a friend or a few hundred kindred spirits, and see what happens!
Perhaps a Czech phrases instead of french. One(s) that a southern girl can relate to.
BTW good luck with edit.