poem project: day 7

One hazard of posting a poem in progress might be the tendency for a writer to feel that once something is "published" even in such a minor space, the poem's direction has become more set, and the prospect of revision somewhat narrowed.

For me, this process has actually heightened my discernment. It is scary putting something out there in which you already know certain words will change, lines will be cut. It's not that these are filler words though; they need to be there to, at the very least, act as scaffolding; their replacement is not always immediately available. The awareness of an audience has tempted me to add notes such as "yes, I know I've used that word" or "that's clunky, but I need it right now..." because it's hard to put your awkward adolescent little poem-things out there without some apology. But I think immediacy is key for projects like this. In fact, it became almost necessary to type the second draft (after the initial scrawl in a notebook) directly into the body of the email I sent to my collaborators. The first day I wrote several options, small revisions of the versions that came before. Then I had to accept that this was a first draft, and I needed to allow for the possibility first impulses can offer. It's too early to be editing or over-thinking.

Each day I relied less on the starting image. I was not writing an ekphrastic poem and the poem told its own way. I'm already looking forward to the changes I will make, what I will cut, hone.

So, the results of the seven-day project (last section freshly written):

1.

The arrow of time does
not run parallel to the ground.
Only the change in our bodies
can mark a trajectory,
and I can't guess at the order or arrangement
of the atoms that composes us:
an inscription that lists all possible expansion.

2.

I will place myself right in the middle,
my body like a hot missile
mottled from the aftermath of violence.
I can't translate the markings
but my fingers can understand
how a pillar might blush
for the horizon.

3.

Today our slow steps pock the ground's incline,
small hieroglyphics that taper as our feet slow.
You kneel and make a tent
with your arms. Let this shelter suffice
as a marker for when the night divides
our flesh,when we sing desert songs
and gather debris for our only possessions.

4.

To fold in brambles close to chests is to trust
the expression of slope written out
in graphite, on cellophane--
to weatherproof a map's certainty.
I have made a diagram of this sharp roadside brush,
created a new taxonomy
for this unlabeled territory.

5.

This is done with an upturn
of palms, the spread of hands.
The names aren't spoken, instead recorded
with a stick in the sand.
The whole journey is written here--

wind erases and it is time again
to move.

6.

Location folds into motion:
remember only variance
in brightness, or some particular
shadow. Keep small bits
of polished wood or
a brightly colored rock. Keep
them to stand in, to--

7.

Just keep record:
proof that defies
time
even as it marks.
Catalog all sentiments
with an ear
for light, for permanence.