#27 Revisited, A series of progresive edits.

I’ve been visiting a wonderful blog put out by a great writing coach and all around good guy John Brantingham, with some fantastic results.  I wanted to post some of my progress on the editing of last month’s batch I’ve made with his guidance, and also post a link so that more folks can check out his blog.  His enthusiasm, insight and encouragement are a great way to get unstuck if you are not writing a lot.  If you are super active writing wise, this is a great month to tune in because he is focusing on editing work, providing practical advice on honing poems.  Check his work out here.

John Brantingham’s 30 Days until Done.

 

Here’s my poem as it goes through a process of adding a title to take some of the weight off framing the narrative of the work, a teasing a part of the layers of meaning to get to the core of the poem, and a removal of extraneous material.  Make sure to check out his blog too!  Thanks John!

 
Original version:

27.

This is the new blood, the new tap-root, which crosses
the horizon, brings images from the celestial body to
the branches, to the leaves
with their chlorophyll memories, none of them individual—they are more
like the refractions of this seemingly unmoved
being seen here in the window, a multiplicity
held in the memory of light, no perfect form but in forms.

Take 2

No perfect form but in forms

of this new tap-root, which crosses
the horizon through our disconnected
satellite dishes, brings only white noise from the celestial body to
our upside down branches, to the leaves
with our buried chlorophyll memories,
none of us individual—we are
refractions of this seemingly unmoved
disc seen here in our bedroom window, we throng
held in the memory of our hands that dig,
that turn themselves
towards the sunlight.

Take 3:

this new tap-root, which crosses

the horizon through our disconnected
satellite dishes, brings only white noise from the celestial body to
our upside down branches, to the leaves
with our buried chlorophyll memories,
indistinguishable from one another—we fractal
of this seemingly unmoved
being we throng
dig with frantic hands
that tune themselves
to the memory of sunlight.

Take 4:

this being, seemingly unmoved,

pushes aside our horizon, glints on our disconnected
satellite dishes, which bring only white noise

from the corpse of the sky to
our upside down branches, to we leaves

with our buried chlorophyll memories,
indistinguishable from one

another—the fractal of the upside down tree
we

dig with these green, frantic hands,
that tune themselves

to our memory of a disc of light we once saw reflected
on our bedroom window, of which

we were also
once a part.

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