Revise. You know you want to.

We continue with the subject of line breaks because I took the two-word line poem posted previously to a weekend workshop with Erin Belieu and was told (gently, of course, because that is how people behave in those things) that the form was distracting.

I greatly recommend taking advantage of workshops if you can afford it. In them, you get to find out what really works as long as you are not so full of yourself that you can’t hear what people say without getting all defensive and such. If you can’t do that, just quit writing right now, because nobody is that much of a genius that they get it right on the first (or second or third…) try.

What I learned in that workshop is that stanza structure says just as much about your poem as the words.

“[It's] always keeping the reader off balance, looking for completion,” Erin advised us. “[It] is not generous.”

You need to keep the reader moving through the poem, she said, so in this case, the two-word lines made the reader stop to wonder why I made the decision to use that form and, ultimately, did nothing to enhance it. Eventually, I got around to revising it to this:

This Sweat

Startled you ordinary Sue
not Spiderman inch two
size 10s, toes over skinny ledge
look down several stories
know fear, gust or
wrong move
can bring what some
call folly tumbling
to ugly death
yet you, like Petit’s
high-wire act, you invited
this sweat.

Teeth clenched
back flat, palms clammy
fingers splayed against stark
white granite
remind yourself to breathe
to act as if
life’s normal.

Then you notice that
delivery man greeting that
grocer unloads fresh veggies
gulls squawk, wait to
swoop upon black
wilted lettuce leaf
this view holds, catches
calms you.

Now it could be
ages or a while anyway
until you decide
you’re done, then crawl
back inside one
lone open window
where there your friends
sit, lounge, laugh butts
to couch watching
holiday college football
bowl games.

Erin also told us “the toughest part in poetry is going from good to great.” According to her, there is only one centimeter of difference.

Did revising my poem make it “great”? I doubt it. Greatness isn't really why I write poetry (thank goodness...too much pressure!). However, I do know that participating in workshops and revising are absolutely necessary if poets want to get to the halfway decent mark.

Kathie Meyer, the Infant Poet

Break it to me gently

Perhaps you, like me, have always been somewhat mystified about the whys and wherefores of a poem's line breaks. In formally structured poetry, this is not an issue; the meter or a certain number of syllables will dictate the break. But in the case of free verse, a lot of times, I have suspected poets were just winging it.

But maybe I have just been projecting.

In my poem in my first post, "A Poem's Bio," I was definitely winging it. I have since read in Jerome Judson's book, The Poet's Handbook, that line breaks like the ones I used in that poem are deemed "rhetorical" because they "coincide with natural pauses or units of meaning." Judson also mentioned that "rhetorical line breaks generally make for rather dull poetry," and I realize now he's pretty much right about that.

Another way to break lines is to use a device called "enjambment." This is when right in the middle of the thought or sentence, the line stops and the thought or sentence continues in the next line. "They keep jerking you around the corner to complete the phrases rather than letting you rest at the ends of phrases," wrote Judson.

But where does one stop and start again when using enjambment? In Ted Kooser's book, The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets, he suggests ending the line with a strong verb:

John ran to the end of the line and leapt

into space

Because there is a slight pause at the end of every line, something called a "half comma" by the poet Denise Levertov (1923-1997), the word "leapt" hangs out there for just a nanosecond, and it is as if John is suspended ever so briefly mid-air. The thing to realize here is that any word at the end of a line is naturally emphasized. Kooser, the 13th U.S. Poet Laureate who I was once lucky enough to meet in person, also shows what it would be like if the poem were structured like this:

John ran to the end of the line and

leapt into space

"In this latter instance," Kooser said, "the conjunction, followed by the white space, provides a little suspense: What is John going to do?"



Walt Whitman (1819-1892)



Finally, in the case of free verse, there is the "closed" line in which the thought or sentence is completed. Take, for example, this passage from Walt Whitman's (1819-1892) "Song of Myself":

Stop this day and night with me and you shall

     possess the origin of all poems,

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there
     are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, 
     nor look through the eyes of the dead,
     nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take
     things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from
     your self.




(Note that when a line goes beyond the right-hand margin of the page, or computer screen as the case may be, it is conventional to indent the rest of the line as it is continued so the reader knows it is part of the previous line.)

When to choose enjambment over closed, long lines over short? In this way, poetry is not any different from prose. Shorter lines in poetry, like short sentences in prose, heighten tension. Longer lines are used for larger, sweeping visions. Closed lines generate closure.

So here I leave you with a poem I wrote that deliberately enjambed two-word lines. As you can probably imagine, two-word lines all the way through a poem can make it pretty intense. I won't tell you what it's about (unless you ask), but will just clarify that it doesn't mean I'm all Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) or Anne Sexton (1928-1974) suicidal-like. I wrote this as an analogy for a specific action, but then I realized it could be illustrative of many more things than just what I initially had in mind. You will probably read it and compare it to something completely different and it will be, hopefully, relevant to you in your own way. Anyway, here you go:

This Sweat

Startled you
ordinary Sue
not Spiderman
inch two
size 10s
toes over
skinny ledge
look down
several stories
know fear
gust or
wrong move
can bring
what some
call folly
tumbling to
ugly death
yet you
like Petit’s
high-wire act
you invited
this sweat
you clench
your teeth
back flat
clammy palms
fingers splayed
against stark
white granite
remind yourself
to breathe
to act
as if
life’s normal
then you
notice that
delivery man
greeting that
grocer unloads
fresh veggies
gulls squawk
wait to
swoop upon
black wilted
lettuce leaf
this view
holds catches
calms you
now it
could be
ages or
a while
anyway until
you decide
you’re done
then crawl
back inside
one lone
open window
where there
your friends
sit lounge
laugh butts
to couch
watching holiday
college football
bowl games

Kathie Meyer, the Infant Poet

Titles II

I've been visiting the poetry section of our town's used book store a lot more since I've started crafting poems, and the other day I picked up The Poet's Handbook by Judson Jerome (1927-1991) there. Jerome, who was the poetry columnist for Writer's Digest magazine from 1949 to 1979, had this brief, but useful, passage about poem titles:

"Avoid titles that are mere abstractions, such as "Courage" or "Love," or "Infidelity." Those sound like the titles of essays (and not essays that many would want to read!). A good title of a poem is part of the experience of the poem, not a label for it. It may not at first make sense to a reader, but at some critical point in the poem the significance of the title should become clear. A fairly common practice is to use some image or phrase or variation of one of these for the title, so the title will echo in the reader's mind when he encounters it in the poem."

Now, as I always do with anyone I discuss in this blog, I did some Internet research on Judson who also created and edited the invaluable Poet's Market and wrote several books in his lifetime. In addition to those credits, Jerome is noted as being a part of a controversial editing change that addressed a so-called confusing passage of unattributed dialogue in Ernest Hemingway's (1899-1961) story "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" initially published in Scribner's Magazine in 1933. Jerome's part in the story is that, while teaching at Antioch College, he wrote to Hemingway about the "problem" in 1956. Hemingway responded saying, "I read the story again and it still makes perfect sense to me."

Nevertheless, for some reason, Scribner's published the story again in 1965, after Hemingway's suicide it should be noted, with changes to address the perceived "problem."

Hemingway scholars have been playing a chess game of "yes, it is; no, it's not" for years (to which I have to wonder why...?). If you really want to delve into the nitty-gritty particulars, you can see an article on the subject here.

Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)

Being a writer almost demands that one have opinions, and I naturally have one about this situation. In our poetry group, we are told we should not rewrite one another's words when giving our impressions of each other's work. That's hard to do sometimes, but really, by the time Jerome wrote to Hemingway, Hemingway had already received the Pulitzer Prize as well as the Nobel Prize. It's not like, to state the obvious, he was a beginning writer. It may surprise you, like it did me, to discover that Hemingway also wrote poetry.

On the other hand, editors do have the authority to make changes (I should know because I am one). But I really think, in this case, because the story had been printed the first time the way that Hemingway wrote it, his words should have stood as written.

This is not to say that Jerome's work should be dismissed though, as I think The Poet's Handbook has much to recommend itself to beginning poets. Especially since it's the only one yet I've come across that offers help with titles.

Here's a link to an article about song titles, but it can also be applied to poem titles, too:
What song titles teach us about making headlines stand out

Kathie Meyer, the Infant Poet

'Lives Like Loaded Guns'

Now that's a title.

It has alliteration, simile and ends with one heck of a powerful word. No wonder I couldn't help but pick up this book -- Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family's Feuds -- by Lyndall Gordon from the public library's new book shelf and begin reading right way.

Its title, by the way, is derived from Dickinson poem with a first line that reads:

My Life had stood -- a Loaded Gun

In the book, as well as an interview with NPR's "Fresh Air" host Terry Gross, Gordon speculated that Emily Dickinson's self-imposed seclusion was because of epilepsy. Fearing the shame of a public seizure was enough to keep Emily in the house, she figured.

All told, while holed up in the house, Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) wrote over 1,700 poems including this one, one of only seven of her poems that are in the public domain:

Wild Nights -- Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile -- the Winds --
To a Heart in port --
Done with the Compass --
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden --
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor -- Tonight --
In Thee!

No one can prove one way or another the reason for Dickinson's reclusiveness for which several reasons have been posited over the years, including agoraphobia, migraines and the devastation of lost love. Regardless of why Emily acquired her odd habits, I'm finding this book a bit too academic to make it a thoroughly engaging read which means I skim sometimes, something I don't really like to do.

The most interesting aspect of this book, honestly, is the telling of the extra-marital affair between Emily's brother, Austin, and Mabel Loomis Todd and its affect on Dickinson's post-mortem publishing history. Todd was clearly an ambitious woman. She took control of Emily's poems after Dickinson died even though the two had never met face-to-face, and even though Austin's wife, Susan, was clearly Emily's preferred first reader. On the other hand, Susan seems to have lacked the drive to get Emily's words into print that Todd possessed.

All that aside, one thing about Dickinson's poetry that has caught my attention is the fact that she didn't give her poems titles. I feel art, whether it be visual, literary or performance, should be named. Dickinson is long gone and it's unclear whether she wanted her poetry published, so she's off the hook. I think those of us who seek publication should give our work something to hang on, an initial clue or entry point for the reader. Furthermore, I think it's a lazy cop-out and oxymoronic to title something "Untitled."

But write anything for a while, and you might discover that titles are not always easy. I'm still struggling with the title for what my friends and I refer to as "the sink poem." For now, it's called "Interlude," but I keep hoping I can come up with something better. The poem I wrote that is printed in my introductory blog post was initially called "Open Air" until I decided "A Poem's Bio" better described what I was after.

So far, not one of the poetry instruction manuals I've read addresses how to title a poem. The latest on my reading list was Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook. While this book does have a lot of good technical information, I thought it as dry and uninspiring as its name. Oliver warns of that in her introduction which states, "This book is about the things that can be learned. It is about matters of craft, primarily. It is about the part of the poem that is the written document, as opposed to a mystical document, which of course the poem is also."

I decided to ask some fellow poet friends of mine where they go to get their titles. I know I can always count on Peter Quinn, our poetry-in-progress workshop facilitator at The Writers' Workshoppe, for a thoughtful answer, and he didn't disappoint me.

Peter said, "Titles come in many permutations. First is the permutation. You start with a title, write until the title becomes true or proves it was really just a prompt demanding a new title.

"Second, there's the 'ah ha!' title. The poem is finished (as much as any poem can be) [with] the intent, the feeling, the genesis firmly imbedded in the work, and there it sits, at the very end of the process, grinning ear-to-ear and saying 'took you long enough.'

"Third, titles are inculcated into the work itself: a line, a phrase, a consistent theme that just won't stop insisting itself into the piece. Finally, at last, you acknowledge it's right to step out front and introduce the whole thing.

"Fourth is the immaculate title coming from where it needed to, informing you of it's existance, it's birthright as the true title. You are so excited you give it a special reverance because you want many more of them to come your way. Dare I say you worship the immaculate title?"

Immaculate? I can barely make it through the morning without spilling coffee on my clothes. As a beginner poet, I'll be happy enough with something that makes sense and is...uh, you know...poetic.

But I get what Peter means. I think it's the same thing that Jordan Hartt, director of Centrum's Port Townsend Writers' Conference, meant when he said, “The piece should tell you what it wants the title to be, and if it doesn’t, you just have to wait.”

I find, more often than not, that's a large part of writing poetry, this waiting.

Kathie Meyer, the Infant Poet