Yearly Archives: 2018

123 posts

I’m Somebody. Who Are You?

Go ahead. Name Emily Dickinson’s most famous poem. Chances are 10 in 10 that you will choose “I’m Nobody,” a.k.a. “260” in the canon.

Go ahead again. Name Emily Dickinson’s best poem. Chances are 10 in 10 again that you will choose anything but “I’m Nobody” (unless you’re still in your teen years, in which case, I can sympathize, trust me).

What is it about this poem that scratches people’s itch? First, let’s take a look at one of the versions. Word for word, some versions diverge, but capitals for capitals, commas for commas, and especially dashes for dashes? Almost all do. It’s the Dickinson way.

I’m Nobody
by Somebody named Emily Dickinson

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one’s name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

First of all, the “you” in the first stanza, though read as a singular “you,” is in truth a plural “you.” And the quip “Then there’s a pair of us”? A lie of the first order. There are a gazillion of us!

Here Emily has tapped into humankind’s natural tendency for solipsism. Secretly or not (especially if you are an “adult”), the world revolves around us. We all pity ourselves. After all, we’ve been practicing the craft since we were children at our mother’s indifferent knee. Poor, poor us! Us nobodies, that is.

And stanza two? It is the “Who Are We Kidding?” stanza. “How dreary to be somebody,” as in famous, as in rich, and in — better yet — both. The reason we find it dreary is because we haven’t experienced it and resent those who have. Naturally, then, the psychology of humans is to lean scornful (and pay no attention to that green-eyed monster behind the curtain!).

That’s right, many of the “nobodies” who read this poem and cheer it all the way to the “man, that was quick!” finish line wish they were frogs shopping the latest bogs (or, at the very least, renovating them on HGTV).

So, if you want to write a viral poem, one that will grab the world by the lapels, play dumb and pretend to ignore what you truly want. Knock it before you try it, in other words. In stanzas. End rhymes optional.

Signed, Yet Another Somebody-in-Waiting (translation in Amherst-ese: “Nobody”)

***

Summer Reading for Nobody in Particular

Blurb Me This (A Modest Proposal)

blathering comma mine opinion poetry poetry books

As a kid, I can remember reading the backs and sides of cereal boxes as I chomped down unhealthy bowls of sugar-laced cereal (thank you, Kellogg’s and Post!). Nowadays, I do the same for books that are lying around—even after I’ve finished reading them.

You know what THAT means. It means I read the equivalent of sugar-laced ingredients on the backs of poetry books: blurbs. Only if you dig a little do you often learn that blurbs are written by a poet’s teachers or fellow university workers or fellow alums.

But what else is new? You scratch my back, I scratch yours, and why not? What really gets you is the similarity of so many blurbs, the way they are obviously a pain in the neck to the person who was asked to WRITE them.

This can be discovered by the simple formula known as A=#Ls (Aggravation = the Number of “Luminous’s”). If your blurbs are so luminous they glow gaudily like Christmas lights on a July night, your book is as sweet a Tony Tiger’s Sugar-Frosted Flakes.

Nowhere is this worse than in a poetry book that actually uses the word “luminous” in its title. I give you Czeslaw Milosz’s A Book of Luminous Things. As you might expect, the blurb from The Houston Chronicle on the back reads, “A luminous anthology about luminous thoughts and things.”

Hoo, boy. Houston, we have a problem.

Other words we need to watch out for: “stunning,” “rare,” “unforgettable,” “breathtaking,” “fierce,” “remarkable,” “memorable,” “profound,” “arresting,” “evocative,” and, of course, “beauty” and “achievement.” For example:

“Jane Hirshfield is one of our finest, most memorable contemporary poets.” — David Baker

“Scrupulously attentive, rigorously self-questioning, What the Living Do is an achievement of remarkable power.” — Mark Doty

“The landscape of Tranströmer’s poetry… is mirrored by his direct, plain-speaking style and arresting, unforgettable images.” — Robin Robertson

“Tomasz Rozycki’s Colonies is one of the most remarkable sonnet sequences of our time…” — Susan Stewart

“Another breathtaking collection…” — Booklist

“I’m stunned by the power of these poems…” — Marie Howe

Pity the blurb writer, asked by a friend or colleague to compose a blurb using a Blurb Dictionary of Words that is only three pages long. Talk about a challenge!

Why not dispense with blurbs entirely, then? Why not let the reader (or shopper in a bookstore) consider each work a tabula rasa? As a teacher, I prefer not hearing the previous grade’s teachers’ thoughts on any given student. I prefer to arrive at my own conclusions. See me for a blurb in October, in other words–one written by me.

Wouldn’t this be a luminous way of doing things? Stunningly fierce and fair? A memorably profound shift in how things are done in the publishing world?

Be remarkable. Say yes.

Choosing Poems for a Poetry Reading

Lost Sherpa of Happiness my poems poetry poetry readings The Indifferent World

When you first begin the task of choosing poems for a poetry reading, it’s like walking into a grocery store’s cereal aisle where the choices are so vast they overwhelm the shopper.

In the case of poetry, do you choose funny poems or contemplative poems, fancy poems or simple poems, poems with sound devices or ones with narrative merits? Maybe a little of everything, you might advise, but a lot rides on the locale and the audience.

For me, tonight, the venue is a public library — a place that I hope will host many events like this in the future. Anyway, here’s the line-up card for tonight’s reading along with a little bit of the reasoning behind it:

“Provide, Provide” (from The Indifferent World) Like Frost, whose title I borrowed, I write a lot about nature. This is a nice, solid, short poem to reflect that.
“Simplicity” (from The Indifferent World) From Frost, I will move to another icon who has influenced by work, Henry David Thoreau. This poem pays homage to an important concept in his book Walden.
“Return of the Native” (from The Indifferent World) A little twist for #3, this work is straight out of the imagination — one that couples ghosts with a whaler captain’s house along the New England shoreline. You know they’re in there!
“Mrs. Galway Goes to Night School” (from The Indifferent World) By poem #4, the crowd will be ready for a little narrative poem about a school bus driver going to night school for Irish Literature. James Joyce, this one’s for you! And Mom, you, too!
“Barnstorming the Universe” (from The Indifferent World) Back to the imagination, this one’s a fanciful work based on a Maine barn that looks like it experienced a crash landing from outer space. It’s a real barn, one I run by each summer morning. A postcard poem, then, with hyperbole for a return address.
“An Old Man Walking Dawn’s Borders (from Lost Sherpa of Happiness) This is my “dark horse” choice — the kind of poem you wouldn’t initially think of reading, but then, the more you look at it, the more you say, “Why not? I feel kind of sorry for this old man. Let’s share his story by giving him a mic!”
“Into the Urban” (from Lost Sherpa of Happiness) Ready for a memory poem? Memories are one of the most valuable resources a poet has at his disposal. This one takes readers to the city of Hartford, CT, when I was a kid visiting my great-grandparents’ apartment.
“When Babcia Caught Her Breath” (from Lost Sherpa of Happiness) From the city to a Maine lake, and my how time flies, as this one concerns my grandmother visiting the wilds of Maine for the first time. The whole poem was built on the last line, which were words she actually said — ones that I will never forget.
“Lost Sherpa of Happiness” (from Lost Sherpa of Happiness) The title poem tips its simple hat to Buddhism, which, along with Taoism, has influenced a lot of my work. If listeners like it, they’ll know there is plenty more where this came from.
BONUS POEM (from Lost Sherpa of Happiness) I have a few ready if time allows, but I’m sharing the mic with two other poets, so time will be a taskmaster laying down some discipline — always a good thing.

Hey. I’ll let you know how it goes!

Constructing Some Deconstruction, Derrida-Like

poetry poetry books

Yesterday I sent my message in two bottles to mentors-in-waiting Marie and Naomi (there’s a poem right there!). And, via the comments section, my good virtual friend, Carter, alerted me that I had stumbled upon a winner when I picked up Carrie Fountain’s book, Burn Lake.

For reasons I cannot fathom, the proof is always in the pudding (which we never eat in this household). Carter, a champion of the journal American Poetry Review, let me know that the latest issue offered up three coins, all of them Fountain’s.

A little research, and I discovered one of the three was posted live on the Net. It’s called “The Student”, and requires more than a passing familiarity with Jacques Derrida, some French philosopher or other famous for deconstruction. And although I am no philosopher, I do know a thing or two about deconstruction, having had more than one of my seaside sand castles destroyed by my older brother—this after hours and hours of construction on my part.

You see? Philosophy is easy. But it might not help you understand “The Student.” My suggestion is that you read it, then read it again. In time, your “ah’s” will begin to construct “hah’s!” and thus are Joycean epiphanies made.

Meanwhile, what started the whole discussion: I started the 2009 National Poetry Series winner Burn Lake last night. Apparently there are a series of Burn Lake poems within it. Here’s the first, which appeared in Poetry:

“Burn Lake” by Carrie Fountain

For Burn Construction Company

When you were building the I-10 bypass,

one of your dozers, moving earth

at the center of a great pit,

slipped its thick blade beneath

the water table, slicing into the earth’s

wet palm, and the silt moistened

beneath the huge thing’s tires, and the crew

was sent home for the day.

Next morning, water filled the pit.

Nothing anyone could do to stop it coming.

It was a revelation: kidney-shaped, deep

green, there between the interstate

and the sewage treatment plant.

When nothing else worked, you called it

a lake and opened it to the public.

And we were the public.

And here’s “Burn Lake 2,” the sequel, cooler still (if lakes be cool, and they do, at least up north):

“Burn Lake 2” by Carrie Fountain

All afternoon I’ve been swimming out
to the deepest part of the lake
and sinking down as far as I can
because for a long time now
I’ve wanted to feel dead and alive
at the same time
and for whatever reason I believe
this is the way to do it. So far,
it’s impossible to feel dead.
Instead, when I reach the cold sheets
of water toward the bottom of the lake
all the lights go on inside my body
and my legs pump, and before long
I see the determined lines the sun makes
on the surface of the water, and I reach
the living world again, the thin limbs
of the salt cedar wagging at the shoreline,
the wuzz of traffic on the interstate,
and my mother, far off, reading a paperback
on a little shelf of sand, smoking
one of those long , brown cigarettes
she slips in one sublime gesture
from out of a clicking leather case.
There is something that keeps
occurring to me in the moment I break
the water, though by the time I take a breath
I’ve forgotten what it was.

Strong finish, that. Subtle finish, too. A nice mix. A “how did she do that?” mix. Maybe Marie, Naomi, or Carrie herself can comment. Maybe they even will.

Meanwhile, back to swimming my own poetic lakes….

Dear Marie and Naomi: Want to Read Some Poems?

poetry reading poetry

Every year, the National Poetry Series out of Princeton (I hear they have a college) stages an open competition for outstanding poetry manuscripts. To enter, it costs 30 bucks, and the submission period takes place from New Year’s Day to the end of February.

Though I’ve never entered, one thing that I like about the contest is that it is judged blindly. Top poets, the final readers, don’t know who wrote what. Submitting poets are not allowed to provide biographical info, a table of contents, an acknowledgments page, nothing.

St. Billy of Collins says this about the National Poetry Series: “I know of no program more vital to the launching of a poet’s career than The National Poetry Series. For over 30 years, 5 poets annually have enjoyed the immense benefit of having their manuscripts transformed into handsome books by some of the most prestigious publishers in the country. Measured by these hard, practical results alone, the Series deserves the support of every devotee of poetry. My own Questions About Angels, selected by Edward Hirsch in 1990, marked the true beginning of my public life in poetry.”

Which brings me to the reason I am writing this: Yesterday I checked Carrie Fountain’s Burn Lake out of the library and am looking forward to reading it this week. It had a big stamp on the cover that read “WINNER, National Poetry Series, Selected by Natasha Trethewey,” which made me curious (and you already know I’m the curious type).

As is true with every poetry book I read, I first count the number of poems (here it’s 48) and then look at the acknowledgments page for marketing possibilities (here it includes AGNI, Ascent, Borderlands Texas Poetry Review, Cave Wall, Cimarron Review, Crazy Horse, cream city review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Marlboro Review, The Missouri Review, Southwestern American Review, Swink, and The Texas Observer).

Finally, I look at the “Thanks” entries. In the case of Carrie Fountain’s once-anonymous manuscript, thanks were extended “for help with this manuscript” to Marie Howe (!) and Naomi Shihab Nye (!). In Nye’s case, Fountain wrote, “My deepest gratitude to my teacher and friend Naomi Nye.”

Gulp. This once-anonymous manuscript forwarded into an open competition clearly had some high-octane help! Which makes me wonder, “Outside of signing up for an MFA, which is tough to do when you have a FTJ (full-time job), what can I do to improve my new poetry manuscript’s chances for the big-time?”

Such a rhetorical question! I haven’t signed on for any teachers, is what I can do, and should do if I decide to pony up 30 bucks for the 2019 competition and want to give it a Kentucky Derby’s chance (I’ll take the outside post, even) by having some very cool poets like Marie and/or Naomi give feedback first.

So this is an open letter to you, Marie and Naomi. No, it’s not anonymous, but I know that neither of you will be readers for the 2019 competition, so it’s all good. No worries.

Drop me a line! Take in a poem or two (I know you’re busy, so one or two will do)! Teach me things!

Winsomely,

Swinging for the Fences

marketing poetry poetry writing poetry

Marketing poetry isn’t simple math. It’s a word problem. You show your work, and the teacher in you is either satisfied or not.

Lately I have yearned for more, meaning the math has shifted such that I am studying that old Indian concept of zero. That’s right. No longer satisfied with placing poems in this journal or that, I’ve taken to swinging for the fences: Poetry, The New Yorker, The Atlantic… any well-known and lofty (by poetry journal standards) outfit that pays.

Pointing to the wall as you step to the plate (á la Babe Ruth) means two things: long waits and short rejection notes. The major leagues mean major competition. Spots are precious few, and many are taken by insiders and “members of the club.”

Still, periodically, over-the-transom types sneak through, cut lines, find a way. It’s that blind lottery ticket mentality: “It could happen to me!”

But, wait. Isn’t lack of publication leading to lack of readership? What’s a poem without a reader (ancient Buddhist koan)?

Like a diet (erm… “lifestyle change”), you actually get used to it after a while. The silence becomes an affirmation of sorts. Your resolution is moving along as planned. You’re hearing from major markets every 8 to 12 months, as if time is not of the essence, as if you will live long enough to see this submission of five poems through “school” (read: 5-10 markets).

It’s like meditation: the lack of publication in this journal in Obscura, Illinois, or that journal in Arcana, Indiana, is OK. The “om” of “zero” feels good. I just focus on my breathing and write. And revise. And write. And revise. And write….

The Top 3 Posts of All Time

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top3

… all time being since this blog began, that is. I must admit that I began this venture more for the business side of poetry. As the new saying goes, creating a blog would make me a “brand” like “Kelloggs” and readers would click, click, click to buy my books of poetry, poetry, poetry (Editor’s Note: Ha, ha, ha.)

As it turns out, blog readers come to read blogs, not buy poetry collections. But I kept writing anyway. Why? As a warm-up? There’s that. To help myself think when reading poetry? That, too. Therapy of a sort when I post “Random Thoughts” posts. Hoo, boy.

In any event, curious as to what was most popular in the now long history of posts here, I found WordPress’s stats area for posts and Voila! as they say during riots in France, the Top 3 for me were revealed! Here they are:

Number 3 (Third most popular post):

How To Review a Poetry Collection I don’t know. What do you think? Students, maybe, assigned a book review on a poetry collection? Maybe, but more likely adults because what teacher assigns poetry collections? Poems, yes. Usually war horses that keep web sites like Schmoop and Sparknotes dot coms in business.

Number 2 (Second most popular post):

A Poem Should Be Mysteriously popular, as this post is more about what a poem should not be. But it includes Archibald MacLeish’s poem, “Ars Poetica,” along with a definition of that word. Maybe internet searches are seeking his poem? Or a little Latin lesson? Or inspiration to write their own ars poetica? Or jokes about swift kicks in the ars poetica?

Number 1 (Drum roll, please, for the most popular post of all time!)

“Apollo and Marsyas”: Zbigniew Herbert Redux Apparently translations of Herbert’s “Apollo and Marsyas” on the Net are few and far between. Yes, I get a lot of visits from Poland, according to the country counter, but fans of Herbert are everywhere, poetry being the universal language. Thus, the first place finish. For now.

For now? Who knows. Clicks on my books of poetry, poetry, poetry (now standing at “two” on the counter) may some day catch up, so pass the French fries and salt….

Top 3 Posts

Damned* Adjectives II: The Sequel

poetry revising poetry writing poetry

Yesterday’s game was such a mad success with online poet-gamers and poet-grammar lovers (in both cases, their numbers are legion) that I thought I’d follow up with a contemporary poet, the wildly creative Dean Young.

The first version of his poem below, “Hammer,” features highlighted adjectives. Some of them are his adjectives and belong. Some of them I have added, to see if you can pick them out as superfluous for all the reasons adjectives can BE superfluous (and I love describing adjectives as being unnecessary by using adjectives–first “superfluous” and now “unnecessary.”

In any event, Young’s actual poem is a scroll-down below, so no cheating. Just pencil down the bad boys (my imposters) and tally up your score.

“Hammer”
by Dean Young

Every Wednesday when I went to the shared office

before the class on the comma, etc.,

there was on the desk, among

the notes from students aggrieved and belly-up

and memos about lack of funding

and the quixotic feasibility memos

and labyrinthine parking memos

and quizzes pecked by red ink

and once orange peels,

a claw hammer.

There when I came and there when I left,

it didn’t seem in anyone’s employ.

There was no room left to hang anything.

It already knew how to structure an argument.

It already knew that it was all an illusion

that everything hadn’t blown apart

because of its proximity to oblivion,

having so recently come from oblivion itself.

Its epiphyses were already closed.

It wasn’t my future that was about to break its reedy wrist

or my past that was god knows where.

It looked used a number of times

not entirely appropriately

but its wing was clearly healed.

Down the hall was someone with a glove

instead of a right hand.

A student came by looking for who?

Hard to understand

then hard to do.

I didn’t think much of stealing it,

having so many hammers at home.

There when I came, there when I left.

Ball peen, roofing, framing, sledge, one

so small of probably only ornamental use.

That was one of my gifts,

finding hammers by sides of roads, in snow, inheriting,

one given by a stranger for a jump in the rain.

It cannot be refused, the hammer.

You take the handle, test its balance

then lift it over your head.

I needed a little help with the word “epiphyses,” so I jumped to the American Heritage Dictionary site, which told me it was “the end of a long bone that is originally separated from the main bone by a layer of cartilage but later becomes united to the main bone through ossification.”

As the adjective would tell you, Dean can be quite erudite in his vocabulary.

OK, then. Let’s see how you did. Below is Dean Young’s “Hammer” as it should be. Hopefully you removed and dropped into your wastebasket for superfluous words (every poet should have one) all unnecessary words.

“Hammer”

by Dean Young

Every Wednesday when I went to the shared office

before the class on the comma, etc.,

there was on the desk, among

the notes from students aggrieved and belly-up

and memos about lack of funding

and the quixotic feasibility memos

and labyrinthine parking memos

and quizzes pecked by red ink

and once orange peels,

a claw hammer.

There when I came and there when I left,

it didn’t seem in anyone’s employ.

There was no room left to hang anything.

It already knew how to structure an argument.

It already knew that it was all an illusion

that everything hadn’t blown apart

because of its proximity to oblivion,

having so recently come from oblivion itself.

Its epiphyses were already closed.

It wasn’t my future that was about to break its wrist

or my past that was god knows where.

It looked used a number of times

not entirely appropriately

but its wing was clearly healed.

Down the hall was someone with a glove

instead of a right hand.

A student came by looking for who?

Hard to understand

then hard to do.

I didn’t think much of stealing it,

having so many hammers at home.

There when I came, there when I left.

Ball peen, roofing, framing, sledge, one

so small of probably only ornamental use.

That was one of my gifts,

finding hammers by sides of roads, in snow, inheriting,

one given by a stranger for a jump in the rain.

It cannot be refused, the hammer.

You take the handle, test its balance

then lift it over your head.

———————————————————————————————————————————

That’s right. I added but one adjective to the original: the word “reedy” before “wrist” in the line “It wasn’t my future that was about to break its wrist.”

How’d you do? Better than yesterday? Remember, a good poet leaves necessary adjectives — ones that carry their weight — and, during revision, weeds out the reedy ones, such as all those blue skies and puffy clouds and green grasses. This is where I say, “Class dismissed!” Oh, and have a day! (Let’s assume the “good,” shall we?)

Damned* Adjectives (Again)

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It’s easy–too easy–to damn adjectives all to hell and preach the Word: Thou shalt scorn both adjectives and their brothers-in-crime, adverbs, when writing and revising poems. But the truth of the matter is less black and white and more perplexingly gray.

So assign your poet writers-to-be (or, more wisely, yourself) the task of writing poems without these modifiers all you want. It’s a great assignment, yes. It’s push-ups and jumping jacks before your physical endurance feat, too. But it ain’t going to be what most poems are: verse rife with adjectives that pay their freight.

Ah. As my boy Will (Shakespeare to you) once wrote: “There’s the rub.” When your revisionary eye turns to the task of revising, you can’t just take the delete button to every adjective you see.

Sure, it’s a great exercise in Zen extremes, but your poem will be left shivering in the cold of the white screen, begging like Oliver (“Alms for the poor?”), and wondering what draconian school YOU went to for your feral MFA.

Let’s play a game and see how the pros do it. Below is a Philip Larkin poem that’s been messed with. Some of the adjectives are Phil’s and some are added by me, but all are in bold print.

See if you can identify the bad boys from the good. Don’t scroll down because the original appears below. Play the game first on the honor* system! (And imagine if I deleted the adjective “honor” from that request!)

Wild Oats (Not the Original, However)
by Philip Larkin

About twenty years ago

Two girls came in where I worked—

A bosomy English rose

And her studious friend in specs I could talk to.

Fresh faces in those days sparked

The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt

If ever one had like hers:

But it was the frowsy friend I took out,

And in seven years after that

Wrote over four hundred letters,

Gave a ten-guinea ring

I got back in the end, and met

At numerous cathedral cities

Unknown to the English clergy. I believe

I met beautiful twice. She was trying

Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.

Parting, after about five

Rehearsals, was an unstated agreement

That I was too selfish, withdrawn,

And easily bored to love.

Well, useful to get that learnt.

In my wallet are still two snaps

Of bosomy rose with svelte fur gloves on.

Unlucky charms, perhaps.

More adjectives than you’d expect, given the notorious nature of these parts of speech. Now take a look below to see how you did. How many Larkin adjectives got the axe in your version? How many Crafty ones passed muster and were left alone? Add them together to get your score. The higher the score, the more you need to ponder the point.

Phil’s original, then:

Wild Oats

by Philip Larkin

About twenty years ago

Two girls came in where I worked—

A bosomy English rose

And her friend in specs I could talk to.

Faces in those days sparked

The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt

If ever one had like hers:

But it was the friend I took out,

And in seven years after that

Wrote over four hundred letters,

Gave a ten-guinea ring

I got back in the end, and met

At numerous cathedral cities

Unknown to the clergy. I believe

I met beautiful twice. She was trying

Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.

Parting, after about five

Rehearsals, was an agreement

That I was too selfish, withdrawn,

And easily bored to love.

Well, useful to get that learnt.

In my wallet are still two snaps

Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.

Unlucky charms, perhaps.

Of course, you are free to question even the greats. Is every adjective necessary in this poem? Does it depend on the poet? On the style? On the poem’s point?

Clear* as mud, as they say (in a useful-adjective kind of way).

Work in Progress — A Better Way

Lost Sherpa of Happiness poetry revising poetry The Indifferent World writing poetry

wip

We all know the joke by now–the sign on the road reading MEN WORKING. It’s how we learned the word “oxymoron” as the car sped past workers in hardhats leaning on shovels, sipping Dunkin Donuts coffees, chatting each other up.

“Work in Progress” is another matter, one with greater meaning and impact. As my third poetry manuscript grows (though not in Brooklyn), I’ve changed my approach. With the first two books, The Indifferent World and Lost Sherpa of Happiness, I created a folder on my computer and then created separate docs for each poem within them.

With this one, I smartened up. The folder is called “Work in Progress,” and it is a single doc containing ALL the poems as I go along. I keep them in the order I wrote them, leaving any new arrangements for the day when I’ve mustered 45 or more–about the number you need to call it a poetry collection as opposed to its little brother, the chapbook.

The advantage to this approach has proven to be huge. Why? Often I’m not in the mood to work on my most recent poem because it is frustrating me. In the past, I would seldom click other docs to look at other poems in the collection. Instead, I would avoid the frustration of the recalcitrant new poem by reading a book or, worse, the online news.

Now? I open up the “WIP” doc and am faced with the first two poems I wrote every time. “Oh, yeah,” I feel like saying. “You guys!” I scroll down and see the whole parade of so-called “finished” poems.

Revising is my middle name (thanks, Mom). It is also the lifeblood of poetry writing. Using this system, I find myself tinkering, changing, and–blessed be!–deleting entire lines and stanzas of poems I had considered “done.”

A couple of times, I’ve taken on the revision task of working on each poem in order until I worked my way back to the present poem. More often, as a warm-up, I find myself reading random poems in the “Work in Progress.”

Interestingly, I often change a word in a poem one day and then change it back the next. Must be the different light on Tuesday vs. Wednesday, but over time and with enough looks, I settle on a word I like better, even though I could go either way.

The revision practice of a “Works in Progress,” all-in-one-doc approach has also reined in my habit of sending babies to market prematurely like so many poor Oliver Twist waifs. Now when I send poems, they’re a sturdier lot, more fully grown and refined. It’s even emboldened me to submit to tougher markets, what the going-to-college kids would call “reaches.”

Though it came about by accident and through convenience, the new method has won me over. It works. It keeps the whole brood of babies in front of me. And, after a few days of revision, I’m all refreshed and ready to tackle that tough poem I’ve been ducking–the one that used to send me to all the bad news on the virtual front pages.