Posts Tagged ‘poems’
working on a poetry manuscript
This week, I am assembling a new poetry book in the ‘a glimpse of…’ series. The first two books, a glimpse of water fall and a glimpse of dragon gave readers a peek at some of the beautiful waterfalls in New Brunswick and the bits of magic in all our lives. A glimpse of sickle moon will explore the seasons in New Brunswick. The manuscript won Third Place in the 2020 New Brunswick Writers’ Federation Competition for the Alfred G. Bailey Prize.
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The poetry book presents fifteen years of seasons, each presented as four poems about spring, summer, winter and fall. The poems about spring talk about floodwaters, under-story flowers and waking from hibernation. Summer poems tell about hurricanes, picking raspberries and sheep in the morning meadows. Fall poems explore first frost, wasp nests, fading flowers and ripening blackberries. And in winter–ice caves, snow drifts, walks in the falling snow and feeding birds.
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I have struggled with how to present these poems. I thought of making each suite of four represent a year in my own life and entitling the section 1978, 1980, 1996, 2012 and so on. I thought about titling each section as a special year–‘The Year of the Path,’ ‘The Year of the Groundhog,’ and so on. I have finally settled on a title drawn from a common theme in the four poems presented–‘paths through tangled woods,’ ‘where shadows meet,’ and ‘a sliver from full.’
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For the cover, I will create a painting of the crescent moon, seen through the branches of birch trees. The image below is a facsimile.
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All my best as you work on your own project.
Jane
abandoned gardens: flowers, out of place
A flower common in flower gardens is the yellow loosestrife (Lysimachia punctata). It is prized for its perennial nature and its whorls of bright yellow flowers. A closely related species, garden loosestrife (Lysimachia vulgaris), differs a little in the arrangement of its flowers and in other characteristics.
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These flowers occasionally persist at abandoned home sites, or spread by the roots. As escapes, they look out of place, a bright spot in the green landscape.
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We went for a drive in the countryside west of Woodstock in Carleton County last Friday and found two escaped patches of yellow loosestrife, one on the edge of a field along Green Road and one in the ditches in Watson Settlement.
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a patch of yellow loosestrife in a field on the Green Road
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large yellow loosestrife
Lysimachia punctata
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slash of yellow
blooms in the crease
between sumac and hayfield
campion, Timothy, bedstraw and vetch
ladders of golden flowers escaped
from a garden now gone
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closeup of the patch of yellow loosestrife
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At Watson Settlement, while I was photographing the flowers, a truck stopped to make certain we were OK. In the back of my mind, I was thinking about COVID-19 and social distancing, so although I chatted a bit, I didn’t ask the woman any questions. I could have talked to her about the history of the community and asked her about other garden escapes.
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a patch of yellow loosestrife in a ditch in Watson Settlement
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yellow loosestrife escape
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In the ditch,
in the angle of two roads,
armloads of yellow loosestrife.
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“Are you broken down?” she says.
“Hardly picked a cup
of wild strawberries this year.
But the Devil’s paint brush
is blooming again.”
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I am afraid to ask,
in these days of social distancing,
about the yellow loosestrife,
about the community,
about garden escapes.
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She smiles and drives on.
Unasked questions
unanswered.
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yellow loosestrife in the ditch at Watson Settlement
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This work is supported by a Creation Grant from artsnb (the New Brunswick Arts Board)!
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All my best,
please stay safe,
Jane
hauling wood
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hauling wood
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The draft horse answers
to a click, a shake
of the reins, the squawk
of a blue jay, flushed
from the thicket. Long
tail hairs scatter flies.
Chain rings, loops around
the log, its cut end
a brake, ploughs up duff.
Nostrils flare and hooves
find gain in gather
of leaves, paw for ground.
Lather under tack,
he lowers his head.
Takes the woodlot incline
as though he’s navigated
these hardwoods
all of his life.
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Copyright 2019 Jane Tims
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All my best,
Jane
first ephemeral snow
snowflakes
absorbed by wet pavement
as though
they never existed at all
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all my best,
Jane
after a poetry reading
Why do you go to poetry readings? Is it because you are supporting a writing friend? Because you love poetry? Or because you search for the perfect poetic experience — the memorable reading of an unforgettable poem, expressive words you know you will always be able to summon. Have you ever left a poetry reading feeling renewed, animated, believing in the impossible?
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I attend a lot of readings. I go to support my writing friends. I go because I love words and poetry. I also go because I long for the memorable. Occasionally, I will hear words, phrases, poems to thrill me for the rest of my life.
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I have had many such experiences. I have been privileged to hear Roo Borson read her poem Grey Glove. I have heard Roger Moore read poems from his book Monkey Temple with his stirring Welsh accent. Years ago I heard a young Irish poet read her poem about a kettle boiling on the stove, and I have never forgotten her words even though I have forgotten her name.
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after the poetry reading
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Bailey Drive is a steep incline
for an out-of-shape heart
a pause returns the thud in ears
to chest where it needs to be, a moment
to see maples on the Aitken House lawn
animated by wind, as metaphor for adrenaline rush
of words
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as trees send Tesla coil sparks into blue sky
from trunks constrained by building
and sidewalks, to branches and twigs
unfettered, plasma filaments bloom
on fractal paths
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another pulse, trunk to bud-tips
and another, signals up and outward
heart slows and holds in place
lightning throb in continuum of space
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All my best,
Jane
revisions
Yesterday was a very windy day. Some leaves have survived the gusts of wind, but not many. It has been a short drama of color this year, with only a few acts remaining. The maples still have some leaves, the poplars are just turning yellow, and the oak is only now losing its green.
While the wind was blowing, I was at my desk, revising some of my poems. It is my least favorite phase of writing poetry. I love the beginning, the first ideas fluttering around in my head, and put to paper. The page at this point is a confused mass of words and phrases, squiggles and arrows. I like these ‘pen and paper’ revisions. There is something about the hand-brain connection, so I write and rewrite quite liberally. By the time I commit the poem to the computer screen, it has already had five or six revisions. Once on the screen, I move things around a bit, but I print the page to do the finishing touches.
I am quite orderly about final revisions.
First, I work on what the poem is saying. This is so difficult for me, because I tend to write descriptive poetry. I have to challenge myself to add narrative, or clarify deeper meaning. Sometimes the poem gets a new title at this stage. Unfortunately, I am rarely happy with the results of this step in the revision process.
Next, I do the detailed revisions and for this, I have a checklist to follow (see ‘revision checklist for poetry’ under about)… I know my own work very well and I am prone to repeating words, using passive rather than active verbs, and using the singular when I should use the plural. I ‘press’ on each word in the poem, to see if another word will add additional meaning, improve internal rhyme, or covey a more accurate image. I count syllables … sometimes small changes will accentuate or create structure … sometimes there is little if any pattern to the poem. Lately, I am paying a lot of attention to the ends of the lines, trying to decide why I end each line where I do.
Finally, I read the poem aloud. This helps me to hear the words, and discover where the rhythm is off, and to know when to include smaller words like articles and when to let them go. Reading aloud also helps me with ‘voice’. I often shift from a child’s point of view to the technical and I have to be wary of leaving my audience in a state of confusion.
The next step in the revision process is more enjoyable. To do some final polishing, I read my poems to an audience. Sometimes this audience is a member of my family and I listen carefully to their suggestions. I especially think about bits they may not like. I also read my poems to the members of my two writing groups. They offer excellent critique and usually I make some revisions afterward.
When is a poem complete? Perhaps never. I still work on poems published years ago. I guess I agree with Oscar Wilde who said, “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back in again.”
If you write poetry, how much time do you spend on revision? What process do you follow?
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revisions
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a violent October wind –
every tree bleeds red,
bends northward
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my books also lean
and the pencils in their holder
the colors in the hand-blown drinking glass
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purple lavender, scent of summer
the flowers now dry
braided with ribbon
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Copyright Jane Tims 2012
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