The Crossing
I am drawn to such tales:
St. Kenneth and the Gulls
who found him floating
in a creel in the Bristol Channel
only a few days old, abandoned
by his Welsh father-prince.
Who knows why.
E-e-e-e-e wailed the hungry babe,
Creee-e-e cried the wheeling saviour birds.
See how pink he is, they marveled—
as sweet as a scallop,
his eyes pieces of sky.
They carried him to their aerie
perched in craggy cliffs, pulled downy feathers
from their own breasts for a nest—
no cold stones for this orphan.
A forest doe came every morning
to feed him with her milk.
An angel offered a cup.
He grew strong and kind and joyful
happy to share in mercy
as it moved throughout the world;
revered by all the local peasants.
Is this what it takes to be loved?
To be a wild-child sailor
without words or compass,
bereft of motherlove and mothernest?
Father, where were you during my rough channel crossing?
Did you not see my infant face in your face?
Did you not hear my howls?
Copyright 2010 by Sandy Longley
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
If you are fortunate enough to have taken a class in writing poetry, you may have encountered a two-part assignment that I call "a fold". First, write a poem that describes a journey you've taken in the last day or so, say, a walk or a drive. Then, write a second poem of the same length about something very different, perhaps a second narrative or something more abstract; for example, your response to a particular color. The instructor will then ask you to start with line one of the first poem and couple it with line one of the second, and so on until the end—in other words, to fold one poem into the other. The final step is to shape the sloppy result of this hammered-together draft by adding or removing words, shifting or cutting lines, etc.
The point of this exercise is to demonstrate the potential motion of a poem, the way it zigs and zags the reader's attention over two or more elements, bringing them together and creating a greater and unique whole. Many would argue that this dynamic (the fancy word for it is "dialectic", in the sense of "tension or opposition between two interacting forces or elements") is the essential quality of poetry—what makes it a poem, as opposed to prose presented in broken lines. Its simplest manifestation is the metaphor. However, as the exercise I have just described teaches us, there are more ways to create this tension. The lesson demonstrates something else as well: the linking of two disparate concepts may not always be the product of insight and inspiration. It can be achieved through craft.
This is relevant to us here at Critique Corner, because it means that dialectic tension can be strengthened in the process of revision. The trick is recognizing which of our early drafts might profit from "folding".
I believe that Sandy Longley's "The Crossing" is one such piece. It is constructed using "bookends". That is, the first element, the authorial voice, appears in the first line and returns in the final seven, basically introducing the poem's second element and then neatly summing why the two are relevant to each other. The strength of this draft is in the depiction of the legend. It is creative, sensual, and succinct in its telling. The choices of diction, in particular, are excellent.
However, in my opinion, the structure, with its introduction and summation, are ultimately too conclusive. They direct the reader to a single, unambiguous reading. And since the "address" of this poem—the person or people to which a poem intentionally speaks—is to the poet's father, the reader is cut out of the communication. As readers, we are now more voyeurs than participants.
What would happen if the two elements of this poem were folded together? To demonstrate, I'll show two possible arrangements with the folded material in bold type. Caveat: the results are rough and incomplete. To smooth them, as described in the first paragraph of this essay, my personal style and diction choices would surely be introduced. It is not the place of someone offering suggestions toward to revision to re-write anyone else's poem. Rather, these are intended as jumping-off points the poet may choose to work from.
That said, revision one:
THE CROSSING
St. Kenneth and the Gulls
who found him floating
in a creel in the Bristol Channel
I am drawn to such tales
E-e-e-e-e wailed the hungry babe,
Creee-e-e cried the wheeling saviour birds.
See how pink he is, they marveled—
as sweet as a scallop,
his eyes pieces of sky.
Is this what it takes to be loved?
To be a wild-child sailor
without words or compass,
bereft of motherlove and mothernest?
only a few days old, abandoned
by his Welsh father-prince.
Who knows why.
They carried him to their aerie
perched in craggy cliffs, pulled downy feathers
from their own breasts for a nest—
Father, where were you during
my rough channel crossing?
no cold stones for this orphan.
A forest doe came every morning
to feed him with her milk.
An angel offered a cup.
He grew strong and kind and joyful
happy to share in mercy
as it moved throughout the world;
revered by all the local peasants.
Did you not see my infant face in your face?
Did you not hear my howls?
I have experimented with opening the poem on the subject of St. Kenneth as opposed to the subject of the author. This gives the reader an opportunity to locate whatever associations he or she might have either with St. Kenneth or the image of a babe afloat in a fishing basket with no intervention from the author. As soon as the author enters, the topic of this poem is narrowed. That's not a bad thing necessarily, but just when to direct this focus is something the poet can and should control. Notice too that, because the questions now occupy new positions, the referents in the lines "bereft of motherlove and mothernest/ only a few days old" and "this orphan" are now somewhat conflated. Are they intended to be about St. Kenneth or the author? Since this association is largely the point of the poem, the slight tension that always results from conflation is expressive.
Let's take this technique a little farther:
THE CROSSING
E-e-e-e-e wailed the hungry babe,
Creee-e-e cried the wheeling saviour birds.
See how pink he is, they marveled—
as sweet as a scallop,
his eyes pieces of sky.
I am drawn to such tales:
St. Kenneth and the Gulls
who found him floating
in a creel in the Bristol Channel
Is this what it takes to be loved?
To be a wild-child sailor
without words or compass,
bereft of motherlove and mothernest?
only a few days old, abandoned
by his Welsh father-prince.
Who knows why.
Did you not see my infant face in your face?
Did you not hear my howls?
They carried him to their aerie
perched in craggy cliffs, pulled downy feathers
from their own breasts for a nest—
Father, where were you during
my rough channel crossing?
no cold stones for this orphan.
He grew strong and kind and joyful
happy to share in mercy
as it moved throughout the world;
revered by all the local peasants.
A forest doe came every morning
to feed him with her milk.
An angel offered a cup.
In this more radical experiment, I have started the poem with its most original lines, a technique always worthwhile to consider in revision. (See Critique Corner, January 2010.)
When a narrative begins in medias res, the background is always spooned in later, frequently in disjunctive bits. This opens the structure of the narrative and gives both author and reader greater freedom. I took advantage of the slight shift to authorial voice in the words "who knows why" to turn the poem radically to the subject of the author. Notice that, as readers, we have no problem following the narrative even with these turnings. We don't yet know who the "you" is in those lines—it could be St. Kenneth, for example, or the reader—but that question is resolved in just a few lines. In the meantime, it creates an interesting suspense.
One problem a poet must always grapple with when reworking the structure of a poem is the final line. Although I personally found the questions addressed to "Father" too directive, ending with the simple conclusion of the St. Kenneth legend fell flat. It is always an interesting option to end the poem with a new image. The line "an angel offered a cup" leads me as a reader to ask what would have been the fate of the author had a cup been offered to her. What would have been my fate had a cup been offered to me? And how very sad for both of us that no such cup was forthcoming. It is an image of lack and longing—universal feelings that give the reader a chance to respond to something about him- or herself, not just to something about the speaker of the poem.
The fascinating part of all this jiggering is that Longley's original intent—an entreaty to her father—is never lost. Rather, shadings of that intent are layered on as we all learn about St. Kenneth and ask ourselves what it takes to be loved.
Using the folding technique has, I believe, enriched "The Crossing". In other instances the same technique can actually create multiple concurrent meanings. This is what is known as "complexity". Let me be clear: complexity is not obscurity. It does not refer to poems that use a sort of personal code or otherwise do not permit readers to parse them. In fact, the opposite. Complexity invites the reader to derive his or her own meanings in addition to the author's initial intent. It opens a poem and invites participation, keeping the poem interesting throughout several readings. And perhaps most relevant to us here at Winning Writers, it is probably the quality that most often moves a poem into the second round of a contest.
Where could a poem like "The Crossing" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by September 1
Top prize of $1,000 from this literary journal based in Western Massachusetts; enter online only
Sacramento Poetry Center Annual Contest
Entries must be received by September 15
Local poetry society offers prizes up to $100 and a reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center in California
James Hearst Poetry Prize
Postmark Deadline: October 31
North American Review, a venerable journal that favors accessible narrative free verse, offers prizes up to $1,000 plus publication for winners and finalists
National Poetry Competition
Postmark Deadline: October 31
The Poetry Society (UK) offers top prize of 5,000 pounds for unpublished poems by authors aged 17+; online entries accepted
This poem and critique appeared in the August 2011 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Categories: Poetry Critiques
