Revising Poems: How to Begin
15 questions I ask myself early in the revision process
Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash
Sometimes it happens: A poem comes out whole, practically in its ideal form on the first draft. But by sometimes I mean nearly never. After twenty-odd years of writing practice, my feeling is this: How you revise is how you write.
I’m a cluster writer—and a cluster reviser. I work a handful of drafts in parallel over the same weeks or months. Working on more than one poem at a time keeps me from whipping poems past the point that they’ll hold structure or considering any one poem precious.
As I begin to work through the 45 poems in my high-priority revision folder, I’m conscious that revising multiple poems simultaneously will probably make space for inter-poem resonances that will help my manuscript cohere. I hope.
But I’m jumping ahead. I’d like to talk about how uneasy the revision process makes me. Often, I just want the thing done. I feel the potential of the poem and am in danger of closing down the process too quickly. Revising makes me edgy. Do you feel that way, too?
Why does revision make us so edgy?
It’s more than just having to reframe what the crazy self-critical voices say when you see the poem plainly for what it is: a workable draft. I think it’s because—after drafting, which has a kind of beautiful inner combustion—we’re forced to toggle between the contradictory forces of accumulation and demolition. As poet Maggie Anderson puts it in this book, which I still find so relevant:
It might be useful to know, as a reviser, are you more comfortable with accumulation or demolition? I feel more at ease breaking down or subtracting elements than I do building out parts of poems where something is clearly missing. I hate when something substantial is missing. I would much rather whittle. I’m quite comfortable demolishing, thank you very much. So I have to work to hold myself accountable when something is missing, staying with the process even when it makes me edgy.
To better my chances of persevering, I begin with the 10,000-foot view, with questions that are variations on “what?” but really point at “why”—sort of like the exercise where you keep asking a partner “why?” after every answer, to get closer to the core of what matters. Here are some:
What question does the poem answer?
What is the poem’s argument—and with whom?
What is the poem’s arc, its trajectory—its shift from _______ to _______?
What truths are speaking from the poem’s images?
What’s teeming below the surface? And below that? Below that?
Which images or situations could be expanded? Experiences extended? Are other memories, experiences, learnings, etc. knocking on the poem’s door?
Which metaphor or moment seems like the poem’s heart or psychological pivot point? Could it be better positioned or spotlighted?
Is the poem suggesting a leap? To seemingly unrelated areas of exploration?
What about the poem’s emerging voice? Its choice of diction, its cadences, etc.?
Is the poem a story? Would it benefit from narrative structure? Or is it following a strong lyric impulse and I need to be wary of prose constructions that will get in the way?
Where is the language most beautiful, most surprising? Where is it too obvious?
Which lines or phrases or gestures are interesting but actually just filler? Contextual but not necessary to the poem’s movement or meaning?
What is the poem’s feeling tone? How could that be augmented—or toned down?
Where is the poem’s volta—or “turn.” Is the poem driving toward that turn? Where does it go after?
What rhythms or repetitions—strong patterns—are emerging?
These questions are like lenses that help focus my attention in a worthy direction. Oftentimes, it’s my writing community—peer writing groups, mentors, etc—who help me answer these questions.
It’s only after I consider some of these over a series of revisions that I start polishing more rigorously, with tighter focus on cohering the poem’s rhythms and repetitions, word sounds, choices in lineation and structural elements, stanzas, etc. Caveat: Many poets use these formal elements as generative tools; I do too, just not in a strict way.
What is your approach to starting and sustaining the revision process? Is it different in the context of manuscript development? Share your thoughts in the comments.