Revising and Editing Poetry

 

Revising and Editing Poetry

“The way to stay fresh in poetry is to do something that makes you uncomfortable” –Julie S. Paschold, to a graduate poetry class at the University of Nebraska-Kearney

 

I recently consulted an Advanced Poetry class for graduate students at the University of Nebraska at Kearney.  They were interested in the subject of editing and revising their poetry.

Here are some considerations and things to think about when sitting down with one of your poems, or a collection:

Things to Consider for One Poem:

·         Is this a form poem, or free verse?

o   for form, are you rigidly following the rules, or breaking some of them?

o   for form, does the poem still make sense and flow?

·         Read the poem aloud

o   How does it sound?

§  choppy, smooth, rhyming, flowing

o   Does it make sense?  Is it supposed to?

o   What is the message? Who is the intended audience?

o   Do you repeat words—intentionally?  Too much? Do some of them need to be replaced with a synonym or deleted?

o   Is it too descriptive, not enough?

o   What can you remove and still maintain the message?

o   What needs to be rephrased?

o   Is it too long or short?

o   How does it end—abruptly? Surprise? Are you satisfied? Do you leave them hanging at the end? Are you trying to upset them?

·         Have someone else read the poem aloud

o   How does it sound?

o   Does anything stand out…is it supposed to?

o   Do they stumble on anything?

o   Do they question something?

o   Is something missing? Or repetitive?

·         How does it look?

o   Justification: Center, Left, Right?

o   One solid mass? Verses? Indented lines?

·         If you have quotes: Use quotation marks or italics?

·         If you have dialogue: Do you use justification for the speakers (one right, one left)? Or verses? Or fonts? How to distinguish between them.

·         What is the tone? Horror, humor, sorrow, political, social/society, grief, romance….are you successful?

·         Does the “voice” or tone change in the middle of the poem?

·         Line breaks

o   Are they natural breaks, when someone would take a breath?

o   Do you intentionally break in the middle of a phrase or thought, jolting the person into paying attention, so the poem is jolted, too, breaking the poem or thought?

o   Are lines long or short?

o   Is there a rhythm to them?

o   Is this more narrative?

o   Do your sentences dictate a line break, or do you have sentences end in the middle of a line, indicating flow throughout the poem?

·         Can you split the poem into two?

·         Can you merge two shorter into one longer poem?

·         Is this a chapter poem?

·         Can you change a form poem into free verse, or a free verse into a form? 

·         Can you add a random line into the middle of the poem to change the tone or message or add distraction?

Things to Consider for a Collection:

·         What overall meaning or message are you trying to get across?

o   How does the title help do this?

·         Are there sub-groups within the collection?

·         As the message moves along the collection—what order does this take? How you place the poems regulates how you create the message.

·         What length are you looking for? Full manuscript? Small selection for a submission? Chapbook? Chapter in a manuscript?

·         What does it have to have, be, or sound like in order to “fit” what you are looking for?

o   Do you have to change anything in order to do this?

o   Do you have to remove or add a poem in order to do this?

o   Do you have to edit a poem in order to do this?

If you are too close to a poem, and have trouble emotionally separating yourself from the subject, either read the poem to another person, or imagine yourself as another person. Edit as though you were in their shoes: it is a bit of a dissociating tactic.

I usually take a break between writing a poem and editing it. I write by hand first, wait at least a day, then type it up.  While typing, I edit.  Then I read it aloud, and type further.  If I am still unsure, I have someone read it to me and edit again.  I will caution, however: YOU CAN EDIT A POEM TOO MUCH. There is a point when you need to put a poem away. If you are unsure about whether you are done or not, put it aside for a while.  Or try one of the last five bullet points in the above list for single poems: breaking it up, merging, adding a line, changing form, etc. Or accepting it as it is.

In the above quote, I closed by stating that remaining stagnant in a form or method that keeps you comfortable keeps you from growing.  Try a form you haven’t before. Use prompts that get you out of your normal thoughts. If you write sad poems, write a humorous one. Write a prose poem if you normally write short poems. Write collaborative poems with another poet. Share poetry with others. Get up and try a poetry slam, or just try reading in front of an open mic. Do something you normally wouldn’t. This keeps you fresh, keeps you growing and improving and developing as a poet and as a person.

I hope this helps!  Let me know if you found this useful.

Thanks for reading,

Julie S. Paschold,

    author of Horizons (Atmosphere Press)

jpaschold@gmail.com
https://jpaschold.blogspot.com
https://medium.com/@jpaschold

 

12.7.23

Lament of a Burning Hollow: a poem

 

Lament of a Burning Hollow

The tree that perches in the soil of me
and fondles all my cares
is empty
save one
and I have left it ripening
for you.

Take it, this orb of flesh and feeling,
this fruit of yearning and hope.
Palm it, my years of untouched skin
until you are ready to feed your desire.

If I could, I would wash my hands
of my shame, gather my crazy from
the tendrils of your memory,
each day a pebble rustling.
I would leave this crusted-over
sagging heavy load in the midst
of burning thistles,
all thorns aflame,
leaving roots ready to stretch,
a soil refreshed anew.

Some say desire is a fire
but all I have is the shape of emptiness,
of missing you;
the thread of silence
coils around this heart.
The hole within grows as it clenches;
when I am near you, the ache enlarges
into the hollow shape of your touch.

It is as if you are no longer real;
no one’s life exists until it is shared.
You are no one now.
No one loves me.
No one wants to touch me.
No one fills my heart.

No one fades to a whisper.
No one is in the wind.
No one has seen it
blowing the tears I do not cry.

 

Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle Paschold

10.14.23

written in Norfolk Library’s Writing Lab, pulling words and ideas from various poems and stories

Once, Again: An old poem revisited

Posting an oldie but a goodie.  I wrote this for my sister, who was a state officer in the Order of Rainbow for Girls.  But the symbolism in this can touch so many other people at this point in the political and cultural scheme of things.  If you have reached out and fallen; rest.  But don't stay.  Find a rainbow, and reach again.  You will indeed find a friend. 

Once….Again

Once I tried to
                        touch a star
                        reach a constellation.

I  s t r e t c h e d
my hand way up there,
            but I couldn’t
                        touch the stars.

Once I tried to
                        touch a star
                        reach a constellation.

I struggled, hanging on to nothing
Hoping for my life.

But they  t h r e w  me back
            and I went hurtling
to the ground
where I began.

 Yes, once I tried to
                        touch a star
                        reach a constellation.

But instead of getting everything—
                        the heavens and unknown—
            I ended up back on the ground.

The stars were not my own.

 Yet later,
            in a cloud
            I found a ladder made
                        of a rainbow, arched
                        and to take step by step.

So, daring once more to
                        touch a star
                        reach a constellation

My hands grasped the edges
and my feet found a rung.

I began my climb once more. 

 ***

Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle Paschold
June 1994

Just Fishing: a poem

 

Just Fishing

Something fishy this way comes
or he wants it to
standing on the edge of the riverbank,
a new spot he’s found now that
he’s moved away after high school,
feet standing in the tall grass
remembering days of chasing
popcorn frogs and water bugs
by the sandy rim of the lake
when he was knee high to a
grasshopper and too excited to
concentrate on his own fishing line.
Now he straightens his cap and
recasts, reflecting on the bird
quietly watching him from the tree
branch across the water, wondering
if it’s one of the few wandering in
from the south, visitors from the
warm climates who can’t handle
the midwestern winters; an example
of each immigrant species laying
with wings folded and feet clutching
invisible twigs, their backs pressing
against glass shelves in the University’s
new exhibit in the museum, colorful
feathered bellies rounded, facing up
in the case he walked by on the way to
the mounted insects, pointing out
each one he has encountered in his
short two decades here on this planet,
now listening to the water trickle
by against small stones as the fish
he waits to hook create rings on the
small still surface of a pooled outcrop
beside him, and the time, the sun,
this afternoon, for once seems to
almost stand still, as still as the
moment before his pole bends and
his bait yields a bite and his shout
sends the startled bird off flapping,
tree branch waving goodbye, goodbye.

Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle Paschold

 

I am: a poem

 I am

            drinking in tendrils

            of serenity

            that squeeze between

            the stones of stridence

            in my mind.

 

I am

            slurping swirls

            of sunshine

            that sing beyond

            the stars of darkness

            in my eyes.

 

I am

            tasting dewdrops

            of tenderness

            that slide from under

            the tension

            in my toes.

 

I am

            sipping drizzles

            of a dawning day

            that emerge from

            yesterday’s ashes

            on my lips.

 

I am

            swallowing spirals

            of inspiration

            that rise behind

            the dried grasses of dullness

            between my fingers.

 

I am

            guzzling whorls

            of energizing life

            that seep above

            the dying shards of emptiness

            in my heart.

 

 

I am

            persisting

            aiming to thrive

            despite the friction

            of desolation

            and madness

            that threatens

            to overtake

            and absorb

            my every being.

 

March 11, 2022

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

Gone: a poem

 Let me be one of the first to die

Do not let me say good bye

Place no more words inside this mouth

Upon this tongue that falters

without the scrapings of a pen

 

I am inexplicably

on the verge of tears

and simultaneously led

to a cave of grim placation

no goldfinches to sing to me now

green has withered

to the shape of a shadow

 

Mud fills my ears and eyes

senses dull to the

tingling of a piano playing

a sheet of black rises

above the rainbowed lines

 

I am enveloped in your

cold black arms again

sinking to the grey

as the clock ticks on the wall

to an empty room

where a cat sleeps in the sunlight

waiting for no one.

 

12-24-21

TJSEP

Wrestle for Keeps: a poem

Watch daughter study

Watch son wrestle

Wrestle on mat

Wrestle with words

Words left unsaid

Words slip off tongue

Tongue in cheek

Tongue tied in knots

Knots in muscle

Knots hold us here

Here among the crowd

Here all alone

Alone not lonely

Alone with memories

Memories long forgotten

Memories of the past

Past is gone

Past comes to bite you

You come to visit

You will help

Help with chores

Help me out

Out of the closet

Out in the open

Open the door

Open to anything

Anything can happen

Anything under the sun

Sun and sand

Sun and moon

Moon glow at night

Moon and stars

Stars are falling

Stars in her eyes

Eyes on potato

Eyes can’t see

See the signs

See what’s coming

Coming to get you

Coming home

Home from work

Home is family

Family ties

Family secrets

Secrets to tell

Secrets to keep

Keep hearts forever

Keep remembering love

love

forever

 

Form poem: The Blitz

12-10-21

TJSEP

Not an Empty Garden: a poem

 

Not an Empty Garden

 

You on the outside looking in

may see an empty garden here

with cracked sidewalks

and barren spaces

but look closer behind my door

and find I have saved the best

of my fruits

from prying insects and encroaching weeds

my gate open only

to those who bring sunshine

and fresh rain to my garden.

You will see what happened here

while farming in my younger years

the crooked rows and eaten crops

the stolen grain and diseased leaves

no longer exist

and roots grow deep

into rich, dark soil for the few that care.

So come to my gate

call out my name

and in the sun or rain

I will come out to play

to dance in my garden with you

because

despite it all

I’m still standing.

 

September 24, 2020

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

 

Inspired by Elton John’s “Empty Garden”

Norfolk Public Library Writing Prompt to use favorite song lyrics in a poem

You said No: Preying Mantis

 

You said no

 

I found a dead preying mantis

on my picnic table today and wondered

what omen

this predicted.

Tonight

a chapter closed

as you said no for the final time.

I had asked you

to go to counseling:

you said no.

I had asked you

to stop yelling at me and threatening me:

you said no.

I had asked you

to stop calling us names:

you said no.

I had asked you

to manage your money:

you said no.

This last time I had asked you

to pay a portion of your half, your part

to show you care:

again, you said no.

I will ask no longer.

Tonight, under the full moon,

I walked behind your house

and on your car

I placed the last item of yours

I was holding on to:

the Christmas stocking I meticulously made

with your name on it.

In this gesture I set you free

and let go of the man I saw:

the man you could have become.

You said no too many times.

The preying mantis still lies

lifeless

on my table outside,

no longer the predator

hunting and seizing those

vulnerable souls

unfortunate enough to leave open

hearts and wallets,

unprotected.

 

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

September 3, 2020

Breakup: A Villanelle

 Having a little fun with the villanelle form:

She said, “Never again

will you be anything

I need.”  To get out of here

 

is all I can think of

if she really meant that thing

she said.  “Never!”  Again,

 

I think of our love

and there must be something

I need to get.  “Out of here

 

I can rise above

like a bird on a wing,”

she said.  Never again

 

seeing my little dove?

And to do?  There’s nothing

I need to.  “Get out of here.”

 

It’s as if she gives me a shove

and my heart can no longer sing.

She said, “Never again.”

I need to get out of here.

 

 

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

August 16, 2020

That Will Be Enough

The couples are on the dance floor and

my photo app reminds me of where

we used to be years ago

on this date:

kissing, in the park, smiling.

I believe we may have been happy once.

I wanted you to help me feel financially secure

            and work actively on your past money mistakes.

You wouldn’t.

That would’ve been enough.

I wanted you to be interested in spending time

            doing things I like just to be with me

            even if you didn’t like doing them.

You wouldn’t.

That would’ve been enough.

I wanted you to speak kindly to me

            and not threaten or yell or think you

            could say whatever you wanted.

You wouldn’t.

That would’ve been enough.

I wanted to be more important than the movies

            you obsessively watched.

I wasn’t.

That would’ve been enough.

I kept telling you I loved you not only

            for who you were

but for who I saw you could be—

You turned into someone I couldn’t recognize

and someone I was scared to love,

hiding from you in my own home,

seeking solace in sugar and sleep,

isolated from friends and family. 

You told me I was broken

and would never find another.

That may be true—

now every man seems a threat,

has the potential to want more than I can give.

This heart, cracked and shredded,

I guard alone and let no one new enter,

knowing loneliness is the only way

possible

to make it beat again.

To have it in one piece, though misshapen

and misused, cradled in my own arms—

To feel it pulse in the dark protected under my ribcage—

Even if it means I can’t be with another—

That will be enough.

July 5, 2020

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

Tansy Season: a poem

Tansy * noun * [Origin: Middle English-tanesey, Old French-tanesie, Medieval Latin-athanasia, Greek-athanatos—immortal, equivalent to a + thanatos—death] * a common weedy composite herb (Tanaceum vulgare) with an aromatic odor, very bitter taste, and finely divided leaves; broadly: a plant of the same genus

sometimes I’ll be

standing in a field

and it looks like I’m

doing nothing

I’ll tell you

--shhhh—

I’m listening

with my eyes

today I see

a small plant

with lacy leaves

and delicate yellow flowers

in April

it seems too early

to see blooms

but for these tough winter annuals

this tansy mustard

it’s just another day in the sun

and looking small and delicate

is a ruse

for how resilient

Mother Nature

has created her children

that proliferate

this early

a child of the aster family

cousin of the daisy

Tansy’s root word is a relative of death

meaning immortality and health

like the bitter yellow tansy

I may be sensitive and small

but am weather worn and

stand through storms

ready for what is blown my way

do not see only with your eyes

but listen closely too

very still

and hear as I do

the small fire within

I am ready for the next season

my tansy season

I am tough

but lacy

delicate

but strong

growing

flowering

ready

every edge cut just so

for you old man weather

this little tansy Julie

grows on

blooms on

lives on

tansy—immortal—me. 

April 30, 2020

Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold