The greatest lesson a writer can learn is the art of revision. A text can always be improved. A poem can always be distilled to the essential image – the central emotion, the basic truth the poem is seeking.
One of the poems that I submitted to the workshop was this one that I wrote for my cancer poetry collection. It was selected for discussion and during that conversation I learned a lot about the poem. After I read it there was a bit of a silence and then the polite comments, “Honest,” “Humble,” “Yes, I don’t like be called that,” and so on. Then the poets start in on a list of things that could be better. I took notes and considered their comments.
Today I took some time to revise the poem based on their feedback and this week I offer to you the original poem and the revision and humbly ask for your input – is the revision better?
The original draft:
The Words That Don’t Define Me
Words and words.
we use them as tools.
We use them as weapons.
We use them as shields.
We use them to describe ourselves.
We use them to describe others,
to mold them into the shape we need.
Cancer patients become warriors.
They bravely fight.
They battle.
They survive.
They have great faith.
They are loving
and have a great sense of humor.
The stories all say,
the newspapers all print,
so we can easily mourn at the grave
of the fallen soldier
who died bravely in battle.
I am not that person.
I have a cancer:
a disease,
a growth.
Brave is facing fear and crying in private.
I am not the warrior bravely fighting.
I am the battlefield where doctors launch their weapons.
I survived because I didn’t die.
My faith is as deep as St. Thomas’.
My love has not changed.
Humor is my shield:
with a joke I can deflect a painful question;
with a story I can make you forget your concern;
with a pun I can make you believe I am alright.
Paint what picture you may when I am gone,
but today I am
afraid,
doing what I must
because I fear death
more than the doctor’s needle.
————-
and now here is the revised work:
Not Me
The stories all say that cancer
patients are warriors, survivors.
They are loving
and have a great sense of humor,
so we can easily mourn at the grave
of the fallen soldier
who died bravely in battle.
I am not that person.
I have a cancer:
a disease,
a growth.
I am not the warrior fighting bravely.
I am the battlefield where doctors launch their weapons.
I am afraid,
doing what I must
because I fear death
more than the doctor’s needle.
I survived because
I didn’t die.
——————–
So the question is to you dear friends – which version better speaks to your heart?
Till next time,
Andrew
Andrew's View of the Week 