Disclaimer: This blog is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the content contained herein and any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Wait. Shoot! Wrong disclaimer. This was the one I wanted--
Disclaimer: This blog is generally a work of NON-Fiction--except when poems and stories pop up, and sometimes even then. While this blog may be a representation of my own particular process with this one particular poem, my processes, poems, and tastes may vary. This is NOT a blanket statement of what all writers processes are or should be.
Ok, now that THAT is out of the way...
This is for my friends who are not generally writers (writers can read it too, if you want), who look at poems and stories and say "How do you DO that? Man! Wish I could just sit down and write out something like that!" Weeeeelll, that's not really the way it works. So, here's a little peek into the system. I've chosen one of my favorite poetic forms, and a poem which is still in the works.
My favorite form is currently the Villanelle. (If you don't want a rather technical tutorial, please skip this paragraph). This little gem is composed of six stanzas, with repeating lines running throughout. You'll see how that works when I write in the first draft. I like to write these little fellows when I want to feel smart, or I'm suffering from chronic writer's block. They don't always work out quite right, but at least they get me SOMEwhere. The form is described in technical terms as looking like this: A1, B, A2 A, B, A1 A, B, A2 A, B, A1 A, B, A2 A, B, A1, A2. The letters refer to a rhyme. If I choose the word 'Shaking' as my A rhyme, then I can use Waking, Baking, Taking, Slaking, etc. A1 is a full line, as is A2, and these lines will weave through the poem in alternate stanzas, appearing together in the first and last. For a professional example of a Villanelle, read 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' by Dylan Thomas here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175907.
Ok, enough of that. Now for the process. I'm a sort of 18th century/21st century hybrid poet. I do so love my notebook and pen, and I do so love my word processor. I tend to write out two or three drafts in my notebook, mostly just tweaking the occasional word, before I enter the poem into the computer. Then I print it, let it sit a day or two, or a couple hours as the mood strikes me or the lustre of the poem wears off in my eyes, and attack it again. Sometimes it's just an idea that gets tweaked. Sometimes, the poem gets a full rewrite. But in any case, nearly every poem goes through drafts. This poem is currently called 'For the Bird in my Woodstove'. As you may have guessed, titles also change. Here is the original poem: (please don't abandon this post in the middle of the poem. It gets better, I promise!)
The lark in the corner is lost for words,
leg cocked a strange angle, two days in the pipe,
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
My cats have been watching the box's glass door, a bird
in the chimney seemed strange. That type
of surprise--the lark in the corner is lost for words
and I am pulling the cats back to open the door, sure
my face will be filled with a bluster of wings, wipe
ashes from his feathers, the strangest longing I've ever heard--
His feet sifting remains of trees and bugs interred
in a cast iron box, mouth open, unripe.
The lark in the corner is lost for words
but his wings are still, his dark eyes fixed on the furred
creatures at my feet, my hand looks suited to swipe
the same--the strangest longing I've ever heard.
I reach in to touch him, take him a third
time, but when my fingers touch him, he's still, striped
with grey and silence. This lark, still lost for words
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
Doesn't make the most sense in the world, does it. Typing it in again, it sounds like the bird died in the speaker's hand at the end. The order of the words in the sentences is strange, the action is not especially clear, the lines are stretched out in desperate attempts to make things fit. No pulitzer for the collection this sucker falls in... So, now is the point where I assess what the poem wants to say. The good thing is, I got the words on the page. It's out, it's moving, it has an idea. I just have to find it. So, this is attempt #2:
Foreign Bird in the Woodbox
The lark in the corner is lost for words
after shrieking and sliding down the stovepipe a full two days,
the strangest longing I have ever heard.
And now we see each other through the glass--a bird
a human, so surprised that I have nothing to say
and the lark in the corner is lost for words.
Does he see the two sentries, my two furred
guardians, chattering oddly for a snack, if they may,
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
Inside, his feet sift ashes of trees and bugs interred
in the cast iron box. I imagine, if it were me, what I'd pray.
But the lark in the corner is lost for words.
If I opened the door and he suddenly blustered
through, I would imagine him stuck in the house to stay,
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
I reach in to touch him, feeling the absurd
tingle of fear in my firgers. Shouldn't he cry out some way?
But the lark in the corner is lost for words.
It is the strangest longing I've ever heard.
Ok. Much much better. One of the things to remember (and have a love/hate reaction to) in forms is that changing one end word can change the whole dang thing. Above, the B rhyme was 'pipe'. Here, it is 'days', which adjusts every single sentence. It can be really refreshing to make one of those changes or, in a much longer or more complicated piece (such as the sonnet corona I'm trying to bring into being) it's a real stinking nightmare sometimes. In this revision, I'm more interested by the line about the trees and bugs interred in the box, and the 'absurd' tingle of fear in the fingers. The dynamic has also shifted from the lark being afraid of both the human and the cats, to the bird being more afraid of the cats, and the human wanting the bird to stay in the house.
Here's version three, similar, but cleaned up a little:
For the Bird in the Woodstove
The lark in the corner is lost for words
after scrabbling down the stovepipe for two full days,
the strangest longing I have ever heard.
And now we see each other through the glass, absurd
the way we stare at one another. I don't know what to say
to him, and he, in his corner, is lost for words.
Does he see the two sentries, my gray, furred
guardians, chattering squeaks to ask if they may
have a snack--the strangest longing I have ever heard.
Inside, his little feet sift ashes of trees and bugs interred
in cast iron. I imagine, if it were me, I'd pray,
but the Lark in the corner is lost for words.
If I opened the door and he suddenly blustered
through, I'd hope he was stuck in the house to stay--
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
I reach in to touch him, to feel the warm, light bird
quiver in my hand. Shouldn't he cry out some way?
But he, in his corner, is lost for words.
It is the strangest longing I've ever heard.
In this revision, I moved some of the rhymes around just to see what happened. I think I lost some of the power of 'absurd' by placing it toward the top and using it as I did. I also think the ending has less effect than previously. The stanza lines are beginning to bleed down into the repeated lines again, which tells me I need to think about trying something else, or perhaps changing rhymes again. I like the rhymes to be offset by being set within the sentence, rather than falling at the end of the sentence. When the poem is read, less attention is called to them.
Here is version 4: (You're probably getting sick of this now :P I get sick of it sometimes, too. Partly, this is just going to show that we don't just sit down and write something out. But hopefully, you see it improving as you go...)
The Lark in the corner is lost for words
after shrieking down the stovepipe a full two days,
the strangest longing I have ever heard.
Now, we stare at each other through the sooty glass--a bird,
fuliginous in the box, a human whose face
must make him, in his corner, lost for words.
If I opened the door and he blustered
through, I would want him to be stuck in the house to stay--
the strangest longing I've ever heard.
Inside, his feet sift ashes of trees and bugs interred
in the cast iron. If it were me, I think I would pray,
but the Lark in the corner is lost for words.
Did you ask the sky god if you could come? Were you assured
of welcome upon landing? Did you come with a message from the day?
A stranger longing I've never heard.
I reach in to hold him, feeling the absurd
tingle of fear in my fingertips. I expect him to cry out some way.
But the Lark in the corner is lost for words.
It is the strangest longing I have ever heard.
Ah ha! Did you see it? That weird moment with the sky god? Now, where did that come from, and why on earth would a bird ask to come to earth, or fall down a chimney, or be covered in soot in the stove? Well, maybe that is my poem's question. Suddenly, it became a whole lot more interesting (at least to me). Now, that only happened when I got rid of the cats. And I got rid of the cats because they didn't seem to be adding anything to the poem anymore. Now it's just the dynamic between bird and human, and something else to look into just sort of fell out of my pen (I love it when that happens, that little moment of discovery. Thanks, Ellen Bass, for teaching me to look for that.)
There's still something here that doesn't seem credible. That all these different scenarios stem from 'the strangest longing'. At this point, I'm beginning to think that's not a fair line, and it will probably be questioned. So, I'm going to do something awful. I'm going to mess with my beloved form...
Version 6: (I am mercifully skipping 5 and adding 6. They're pretty much the same, just slightly tweaked)
For the Bird in my Woodstove
The Lark in the corner is lost for words
after shrieking down the stovepipe a full two days,
the strangest entrance I have ever heard.
And now I see through the dark glass--a bird,
fuliginous and damaged from being curled the wrong way
in the chimney, shivering in the corner, lost for words.
He must be the child of sky gods, of bluster
and breeze, fallen like Icarus into an ashy bay,
the strangest retelling I have ever heard.
His feet sift ashes of trees and bugs interred
in the cast iron. If it were me, I would pray
but he, in his corner, is lost for words.
Little immortal, your wings are pearled,
iridescent. You only fall if you choose that fate,
the strangest humility I have ever heard.
I reach in to hold him, feeling the absurd
tingle of fear in my fingertips. Shouldn't he cry out some way?
But he, in his corner, is lost for words.
It is the strangest longing I have ever heard.
Here, some of the lines are stretched (Villanelles are traditionally written in iambic pentameter. Y'know, that thing that Shakespeare wrote everything in), but it's getting more interesting. (By the way, for those curious who have not grabbed a dictionary or whipped open a search engine to look up 'fuliginous', it means soot covered). I have more bits and rewrites of this in a bunch of my notebooks, but this is the most recent one, and I like it the most so far. I have ideas now for changing it a little more, and I'm going to try and at least bend it to 10 syllables to a line, whether or not I actually achieve iambic or not.
So, there is your very long tutorial of a process for writing a poem. Sometimes a writer is blessed by having a great idea wing into his or her mind fully formed, but most of the time we wind up doing stuff like this for hours and hours before we come up with something nifty enough for our self-conscious selves to show to other people. I've just bared my soul for you by presenting you with the infant poem, so please at least give me credit for that, ;)
Thanks for reading. And hey, try it out!
~Hannah Mae
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