Shortly after I posted the September 11, 2003 instructional exercise for Writing It Real, subscriber Christine Robinson sent me some writing of hers that resulted from using the exercise.  In this week’s article, I want to show you what she wrote and how she developed the draft, which she thought resembled a prose poem, into a poem.

First, here is a recap of the exercise excise from a strategy I noticed Grace Paley using in her short story “Wants”:

1)  Go to a specific place and describe it using all of your senses.
2)  Tell about an action you are taking or a decision you are making.
3)  Imagine someone you know coming into view.   Write the way you imagine they look and what they are doing in your view.
4)  Open an imagined conversation by saying, “Hello, my______.” Fill the blank in with a noun.
5)  Write a conversation between yourself and the imagined person.
6)  When you have completed the imaginary conversation, reveal what you hoped to accomplish in this spot with an assertion.

You will find that after choosing a place, deciding on an action, discussing life in conversation with someone, your statement will include valuable insight.

Here is what Christine Robinson wrote in response to the exercise:

A Simple Matter of Words

I was sitting on a lawn chair in my outdoor room. Hello forest, You’re still there, my bamboo and pine. Talking was easier surrounded by the enormity of green, the distant cry of crows, canyon birds rustling the bamboo, whiffs of pine needles and sap, reminders of growing up a girl. I needed to remember that. She wants to talk and tells me she wants to talk to me like a doctor. She said, I’ll try not to cry, but I can’t guarantee it, and you can’t tell Mom or Dad any of this. I said, O.K., I can do that. A stethoscope dangles from my neck for support. And whatever you say stays right here. I looked at her with a straight back look that caught me off guard, a snap shot of concern, my mind racing. I had the impulse to rush questions, lines well learned on the merry-go-round of years raising boys. Get to the bottom of what happened quick, it may save a life. Instead, I sat quietly, rubbing the ear tip of the stethoscope, a reminder to listen. This was different facing a girl. I’m so glad we’re close and I can talk to you whenever I want to, she said, I get so mixed up and stressed out at times, and I need to get my head straight. At seventeen, she is tall and muscular, aerobics and cheerleading legs and arms. Her long, thick hair pulled back with a clip and wisps of hair sweeping her face in high fashion. The daughter look I dreamed about for so many years. She said, it’s not like I can’t talk to them, but I don’t want to freak them out, and Mom gets freaked out so easy. And Dad, well you know him better than anyone, he takes over and figures everything out and I need to do that instead. I thought, do not rush, keep the lines clear, a simple matter of words. Sitting in the outdoor room, open for discussion. This is not breaking up a fistfight, or detective work on who done it. This is your granddaughter growing up a girl. I needed to remember that.

I read this draft and felt Christine was certainly off to a lovely, strong start.  I thoroughly enjoyed the greeting, “Hello Forest, you’re still here, my bamboo and pine.”  As a reader, I was hoping she would circle back at the end of the piece to the forest when she thinks of growing up a girl. I wondered, “What lessons does the forest have for the speaker? It is that it grows independently once it is planted or something like that?”

 I also thought that the writing could be more forthcoming in places.  There were questions raised for me that remained unanswered:  Is the speaker a doctor? Is that important? Is the girl in the poem the daughter of the speaker’s son?  How is growing up a girl different than growing up a boy?  Is there any dialog beyond what’s shared that could let readers in on what the speaker thinks?

Most important in the writing’s development, I felt, was how the forest could be a metaphor for growing up a girl–what does the grandmother remember of it herself?

Christine said:

What I struggle with in writing a poem is my idea, not to reveal every detail and give hints, like a Japanese painting’s hazy space to be filled in with a personal thought or vision. But you are saying, I think, to extend the narrative.  I thought, also, an attempt to bring the forest back was weak, but just “sitting in the outdoor room,” is not enough, I see. I love to rewrite, and will look at this entire work with a new vision and an intent to fill in the hazy space.

She added:

Sometimes I wonder about the rhythm. Is it better to write “under cover of green,” or “under green cover.”  The first gives the impression of a shield of tranquility and protection for the writer, but then, “under green cover” extends to the forest (birds, bamboo and pine needles and sap).

I answered that I like, “Talking was easier under green.”  I felt Christine could take away the word “cover” since “under” implies a cover and we can enjoy the simple, direct sound. I think that “of” constructions sometimes sound overly poetic when the images themselves can carry the poetry. In this case, it is green that does this since we know you are in a forest.  Also, I emphasized that endings circle back in some way to beginnings. That is how the reader feels she’s been on a journey and although her feet are placed back down where she started, much has happened.  And I very much think, that when the right, specific detail is in a poem, the reader finds that space to bring themselves into the drama and observation of the poem.  It is not a hazy space at that point; it is a door opening.

When Christine started rewriting, she felt that her revision held additional insight into what she wanted to say to her granddaughter (as a grandmother) and other teenage girls (anticipatory guidance as a nurse practitioner).

A Simple Matter of Words

Hello forest, you’re still there, my bamboo and pine. Talking
was easier under green. Canyon birds rustle the whiff of pine
needles and sap, reminders of growing up a girl. I need to
remember that.

She wants to talk to me, she says, like a doctor. You know
what I mean and you can’t tell Mom or Dad any of this. I put
on my doctor look and said, “O.K., I can do that and whatever
you say stays right here.”

I looked at her with a snap shot of concern, the impulse to ask
questions, strategy learned riding the merry-go-round years
raising boys. Get to the bottom of it quick, it may save a life.

This was different facing a girl, not breaking up a fistfight
or detective work on who done it. This was high-pitched words
in an honest outburst. “I’m so glad we’re close and I can talk
to you about anything,”

She said, “I get so stressed out at times and I need to get my
head straight on this, you know what I’m talking about, right?”
At seventeen, she is tall, muscular, cheerleader legs and arms.
Her long thick hair pulled back with strands sweeping her face

in high fashion. The daughter look I only dreamed of.
She said, “It’s not like I can’t talk to them, but Mom will freak
out and Dad, well you know you raised him, he’ll feel responsible
that he failed or something as a parent, in some weird way.”

“I’m so confused, Grandma, tell me what to do, I haven’t done
anything wrong, but.” A tense laugh and look locked in and it
was my turn. I picked up on the contradiction. Glancing over her
shoulder to throw a nonchalant phrase, I said,

“The forest is still there, I’m glad you’re sitting here with me,
talking is easier out in the open. What comes to mind is the
bottom line for what you’re going through. It’s a simple matter
of words, boys trade love for sex, and girls trade sex for love.

The bamboo and pine don’t trade anything. They stand tall in this
sensitive habitat. Nature, never spent, regenerates. Don’t fall into
the trading trap. This is a hard lesson to learn, growing up a girl.
You need to remember that.”

I really liked this version; I felt that all my questions had been answered and that the poem brought me somewhere new in my thinking. I now had information to consider because of the return to bamboo and pine.  However, I now felt that the last two lines were more didactic than the receiver of the information might like them to be. Was there a way to soften the tone?

I thought that shortening a bit further would let the images and conversation Christine uses speak for themselves, and I didn’t think that the way Christine had divided the sentences among lines and stanzas in some places had created interesting momentum.  Instead, it made understanding more difficult.  In making edits, in addition to shortening, I took a more direct approach with line endings and beginnings and broke up sentences only where I felt bringing words to the next line added resonance:

A Simple Matter of Words

Hello forest, you’re still there, my bamboo and pine.
Talking was always easier under green
where canyon birds rustle amidst the whiff of pine.

She wants to talk to me, she says, like a doctor.  “You know
what I mean and you can’t tell Mom or Dad any of this.”
“O.K., whatever you say stays right here.”

She says, “I get so stressed out at times and I need to get
my head straight on this.” At seventeen, she is tall,
with cheerleader legs and arms, thick long hair pulled back.

Strands sweep her face.  Mother of boys, I dreamed
this daughter look. “It’s not like I can’t talk to them,
but Mom will freak out and Dad–well, you know you raised him;
he’ll feel responsible that he failed or something as a parent.”

“I’m so confused, Grandma, tell me what to do, I haven’t done
anything wrong, but…” A tense laugh and it’s my turn.

“I’m glad you’re sitting here with me, talking in the open.
What comes to mind is the bottom line for what you’re going through:
Boys trade love for sex, and girls trade sex for love.”

The bamboo and pine don’t trade anything. They stand tall,
“Don’t fall into the trading trap.” Nature is never spent,
but regenerates. “Remember that.”

Soon, Christine received a letter from Martin Tucker, Editor of Confrontation Magazine, a literary journal from Long Island University.  In response to a submission of several poems she sent, he wrote:  “…your revised version, ‘A Simple Matter of Words,’ came close. There’s a fluency and a voice here, but we felt you need to pare down the poems. They sing but they carry on the aria too long.”

Excited by the response and the idea that her poem had almost made the cut, Christine set out to cut phrases that might be extra.  In the end, though, she wrote, “I do not want to cut out much. Maybe I don’t fully agree (for this poem) with what Martin said, “…they carry on the aria too long.”

I thought about his words and Christine’s and after letting some time go by, I looked at the next version of the poem with fresh eyes.  I shared Christine’s feeling that the poem did not need much cutting, but between us we did find some ways to shorten things:

A Simple Matter of Words

Hello forest, you’re still there, my bamboo and pine.
Talking is easier under green, the whiff of pine and
rustle of canyon birds under brush.

“You know what I mean and you can’t tell
Mom or Dad any of this.”
“O.K., whatever you say stays here.”

“I get so stressed out at times, and I need to get
my head straight on this,” she says, cheerleader
legs and arms, thick long hair pulled back.

Strands sweep her face, and I, mother of boys, remember
only dreaming this look. “It’s not like I can’t talk to them,
but Mom freaks out and Dad, you know, you raised him;

He’ll feel responsible that he failed or something as a parent.”
“I’m so confused, Grandma, tell me what to do, I haven’t done
anything wrong, but…” A tense laugh and it’s my turn.

“I’m glad you’re sitting here with me, talking in the open.
What comes to mind is the bottom line for what you are going
through. Boys trade love for sex and girls trade sex for love.”

The bamboo and pine don’t trade anything. They stand tall,
“Don’t fall into the trading trap.” Nature is never spent, though;
it regenerates. “Remember that.”

The changes are small, and although they don’t shorten the poem a lot, making the talking present (“talking is easier”) and reducing the dialog create some speed and the “aria” plays faster.  It no longer “goes on too long” even with the addition of a few words for fluency in certain sentences:  “…and I, mother of boys, remember only dreaming this look” and “Nature is never spent, though; it regenerates.”  I hope Christine sends this poem out for consideration by another literary magazine very soon.