“A Change for the Better: Revision.”
I like revision. Oh, sure, there’s always a slough of despair when I realize what I’m writing is not yet what it needs to be and I have no idea how to get it there. But when I have that spark of an idea, I enjoy the hard work of getting that fire going and then keeping it from consuming everything in sight. And then, when it’s perfect, I tweak it some more. So it should be no surprise that this chapter on revision was my favorite in Tania Runyan’s book.
“I would argue that revision is the highest form of respect and soul-nurturing you can give to your poetry.”
As anyone reading this series and reading the comments knows, I’ve revised the heck out of this poem. I started blogging through Runyan’s book thinking my poem was finished. Here’s that draft:
Roadside Oddity (#5? #10?)
Tire tracks dissolve
into pasture streaked by yellow tape:
“Do not cross.”
We cross drought-bleached grass
sift debris. The earth
curves away
though there’s nothing odd
about a cross beside a highway
in a dry county except
this cross is not white. Entwined grapevines
rise toward ivory sky.
Praire wind lifts our zephyr skirts.
Thankfully, time passed between reading chapter 7 the first time and reading it again to blog about it. I printed the first draft of my poem, the one some folks had liked the best, and laid it next to this most recent draft. I read each one aloud. Then I reread chapter 7 and made changes in pencil. I do my best work with a pencil.
I decided that although the poem above corrects some of the flaws in the first draft, it’s too tidy. It lacks emotion—it’s like the reader is looking at the cross while driving 75 miles per hour down the interstate instead of trudging through the grass.
So, I give you draft No. ?. The final (for now).
Roadside Oddity
There’s nothing odd
about a short cross beside a Texas highway although
this one is not nestled in some Dead Man’s Curve
in a dry county. This one
is not white. Entwined grapevines
rise out of pasture so flat you can see the earth curve
toward ivory sky.
“Careful, there could be snakes,” she says,
but there’s no water. Tire tracks dissolve
into pasture streaked by yellow tape:
“Do not cross.”
We cross drought-bleached grass.
Prairie wind lifts our zephyr skirts.
