WAGblog

Writing and rewriting

I think it was Kate who asked me to show how I write a poem from beginning to end. Since I keep my rough drafts stapled in the order in which I write them to the page of my poetry notebook where I wrote the first draft longhand, I can do this with a poem already written rather than writing a brand new poem, which might put more pressure on me than would be good for me right now. Forthwith, you remember the poem CLASSIC, which I put up recently?

CLASSIC

Homemaker turned friend, on a Saturday
Mid-spring, sprang me from my apartment
And we were off to the flea for the bargains.
Jo headed for the “new stuff,” all oil-based
Fabrics in cut-rate, designer knock-offs
While I cast my eyes over what had aged

Into sepia, rounded or paintless with love and use,
Hoping for antiques on sale by the unwitting, fair
For not knowing priceless from worthless myself
Except in the matter of three women’s sweaters,
New --tags still on -- in navy, ash and sand
Under a sign that read: CLASSIC CASHMERE $5.

Why cashmere sweaters at that price
Still unsold if there wasn’t a mortal catch?
Was made in the 1950s in 2006 too mortal for me?
Well, were there holes? were they coming apart
At the seams? was the style dowdy or old-fashioned?
Taking last first, he pattered: Classic

Means classic; you could wear these any year
And never look out of place. Test them yourself. Pull
At them. They won’t even stretch, those seams.
And no holes. Okay, you found a tiny one
In the sand-colored arm? It can be repaired.
You see, pristine condition, almost. And only $5 each.

I tell you, it offended me how flea-goers shunned
1950s cashmere, so valued and precious
When new a sweater might cost hundreds of dollars
Yet 50 years old, like many of us, in almost
But not quite, pristine condition, no one wanted
Those gals, not even at flea market prices.

I fell for the sweaters, bought all of them --
Navy and ash pullovers, the sand-colored cardigan
And brought them home. Now that we survived
The steams and storms of peach season, it’s all apples
Finally. I need a sweater mornings, comfort
in cashmere, 50-something, same as I, a classic.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, the very first rough draft the handwritten one went like this:

Homemaker turned friend, on a Saturday
mid-spring, springs me from/out of my apartment
and we're off to the flea for the bargains.
Josephine heads for the new stuff
cut-rate discount dirt cheap mostly oil-based
I cast my eye over what's old/ aged
(into sepia, comfortable edges rounded with use) hoping
for antiques on sale by the unwitting
not knowing priceless from worthless myself
except in the matter of three womens sweaters
my size, tags still on, in bluer, gray and beige
and the sign said CLASSIC CASHMERE $5 EACH.
Why were cashmere sweaters at that price
still unsold if there werent a mortal catch?
Was made in the 1950s in 2006 too mortal for me?
Were there holes? Was the wool deteriorating?
Was it fraying or coming apart at the seams?
No, no and no, I checked myself. One tiny hole, easily repaired
in the beige arm. Now I must tell you it offended me
how people ran from the 1950's cashmere,
so valued and precious when new a sweater
is worth hundreds of dollars sometimes
but 50 years old and in almost pristine condition
no one wanted those gals, not even at Walmart prices.
Are we, then we 50-somethings valoued as little as those
once-prized cashmeres, called classics but ignored
as past out prime, esp women? I bought all
three sweaters. It's September now and already
I wear them, my priceless $5 cashmeres.

The first thing that strikes me about this first draft, this idea dashed onto paper without any attempt to shape it or edit it just getting the gist of it down, is that it is serious. It lacks the playful quality of the final version. It will be interesting to see when that first appears. But you can see that I do not write perfect first drafts by any means. I scribble and cross out and write like mad to "catch" a poem, but what I catch is an idea, very basic and unshaped, not the poem entire. I might get a beginning and end "from the air," but have to fill in the middle, or a couple of good lines in between but have to do the rest by "myself." As you can see, even what I get is very "first drafty" and unpolished as I am expected to do a lot of work to get it into shape. So let's look at the next draft that I kept and see what changes I made and why.

Homemaker turned friend, on a Saturday
midspring, sprang me from my apartment
and we're off to the flea for the bargains.
Jo headed for the "new stuff" all oil-based
cut-rate, discount, designer knock-offs
while I cast my eye over what had aged itself
into sepia,ropunded or paintless with love or use,
hoping for antiques on sale by the unwitting, fair game
for not knowing priceless from worthless myself
except in the matter of three women's sweaters
my size, tags still on, in navy, ash, and sand
under a sign that read: CLASSIC CASHMERE $5.

Now let's look at the two versions of this first part. THe first three lines are more or less the same, though I have chosen to go with the past tense. I notice I have taken out "dirt cheap" and added the "designer knock-offs" The first is an improvement, though not yet enough of one as cut-rate and discount still have to be dealt with, all three expressions saying the same thing. Using the word "Oil-based" instead of "plastic" or "synthetic" gives the "new stuff" by association the smell and feel of gasoline or motor oil and is meant to make it seem disagreeable. Aging something into sepia, for which most people have a fondness, elicits good feelings, as well as memories of something paintless with "love or use". You see how I'm getting you on the narrator's side? THe colors of the sweaters have been changed too, to fresher words, though I'm not to sure about this as it makes them sound like a fashioin catalogue...I yet may change them back! Finally, the sign is missing the "each" which tightens the line and adds to the impact of the $5, which is weakened by anything following it.

Now let's see what the next draft of the second part of the poem does.

THe second part in the third kept draft (there were several mini-drafts in-between) has seen many changes already. Now there is an attempt at humor, with the salesman doing his selling routine to someone he thinks is going to haggle. This time the "each" is kept because he is emphasizing that she, the narrator (who by the way is never to be thought of as the poet, since often he or she is not) must pay $15 for the three.

Why cashmere sweaters at that price
still unsold if there wasn't a mortal catch?
Was made in the 1950s in 2006 too mortal for me?
Well, were there holes? Were they coming apart
at the seams? Was the style dowdy or old-fashioned?
Taking last first, he pattered: Classic
means classic; you could wear these any year
and never look out of place. Test them yourself. Pull
at them. They won't even stretch those seams.
And no holes. Okay, you found a tiny one
in the sand-colored arm? It can be repaired.
You see, pristine condition, almost. And only $5 each.

This is pretty much as it will be in the end. So let's see where draft #4 (what was kept after numerous revisions) brings us:

Homemaker turned friend, on a Saturday
Mid-spring, sprang me from my apartment
And we were off to the flea for the bargains.
Jo headed for the “new stuff,” all oil-based
Fabrics in cut-rate, designer knock-offs
While I cast my eyes over what had aged
Into sepia, rounded or paintless with love and use,
Hoping for antiques on sale by the unwitting, fair
For not knowing priceless from worthless myself
Except in the matter of three women’s sweaters,
my size --tags still on -- in navy, ash and sand
Under a sign that read: CLASSIC CASHMERE $5.

(note that in the final version I split the stanza in half and changed the "my size" to "new." I did this because if the size was mentioned, then readers would decide the 1950s cashmere was not the problem but only that the sweaters didn't fit. That was not my point in this poem, so I wanted to steer readers away from that sort of reasoning.)

Why cashmere sweaters at that price
Still unsold if there wasn’t a mortal catch?
Was made in the 1950s in 2006 too mortal for me?
Well, were there holes? were they coming apart
At the seams? was the style dowdy or old-fashioned?
Taking last first, he pattered: Classic
Means classic; you could wear these any year
And never look out of place. Test them yourself. Pull
At them. They won’t even stretch, those seams.
And no holes. Okay, you found a tiny one
In the sand-colored arm? It can be repaired.
You see, pristine condition, almost. And only $5 each.

In 2006, it offended me how flea-goers shunned
1950s cashmere, so valued and precious
When new a sweater might cost hundreds of dollars
Yet 50 years old, like many of us, in almost
But not quite, pristine condition, no one wanted
Those gals, not even at flea market prices.
I fell for the sweaters. I bought all of them --
Navy and ash pullovers, the sand-colored cardigan
And brought them home. Now that we survived
The hottest summer on record, days are crisper
Finally and I've been needing a sweater mornings,
I rise, pull on cashmere the same age as I, a classic.

You can see how the poem is almost in its final draft, but that I need to work on the last stanza and freshen the tired last three lines, which eventually I succeed at doing, though it takes several more versions to get it right.

Now that I've gone briefly through the evolution of a poem as I wrote one, is the process any clearer, or should I do a more detailed analysis, or write a poem on line? I could try to do that I suppose...Anyhow, I may have to work on this poem more. Now that I've looked at it this way, I'm no longer satisfied with it! BD