Whispers
Mile after mile of trees border
the highway. She gasps.
The Maples' fiery red, the creamy
white petals of the Magnolias,
the verdant Evergreens standing
side by side lining the forest wall,
as though guarding its history.
It's her first visit to the south.
The early morning breeze rushes
through the car's open windows,
battering her windswept hair
as her eyes greedily search
for the unfamiliar.
She spots a shadowed grove
littered with deadfall,
like corpses strewn across a battlefield,
blemishing the landscape of soft
and dark greens, tinged with sunlight.
She hears a chorus of sounds;
a rustling amongst the trees,
ghostly whispers conjuring up visions
of secrets buried long ago, in unmarked,
unblessed graves.
Passing trees at 65 mph, she spots an Oak
and strains her neck for a quick look back
at a tree whose branches, as history records,
were once adorned, hung, and weighted
down with ornaments of flesh and blood.
Shrinking back from unwanted visions
of tree roots permanently stained a dark,
reddish-brown with the life force of her
ancestors, she curses the wrath inflicted
upon God's own likeness.
Off to the side, away from the trees
stands a Willow. The sway of its branches
in the breeze, calm, hypnotic, brings her
back to the moment. She can't help
but compare its grace to the stock-still
branches of the surrounding trees.
Again, she hears the sounds of the forest
swept along through the leaves moving from
tree to tree; less frightening, less haunting,
a voice whispering, "forgive them
for they know not what they do."
Copyright 2011 by Vea A. Glenn
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
In last month's Critique Corner, I offered a single simple technique that can instantly improve a poem. Well, I've got another one for you. This month, Vea A. Glenn has allowed me to use her powerful and heartfelt poem, "Whispers", to demonstrate.
It is a common technique—perhaps the most common—and so, I have heard it given many names. For now, let's go with poet Fred Marchant's nomenclature when he said, "Every poem could use a good scrubbing."
Extra syllables are what he suggests you scratch away at—syllables in the form of small words or parts of words (look for "ing" endings) as prepositions, or as part of complex verb tenses. Punctuation is your friend in this game.
Why? Well, consider what happens I remove just the word "the" from stanza one of "Whispers":
Mile after mile of trees border
highway. She gasps.
Maples' fiery red, creamy
white petals of Magnolias,
verdant Evergreens standing
side by side lining forest wall,
as though guarding its history.
The result is that the first time the definite article occurs is in the first line of the second stanza: "the south"—that is, a specific place, as opposed to a direction. American readers will understand this to be the area of the country associated with plantation slavery and the harshest of the civil rights struggles. By removing the prior occurrences of the word "the", its first appearance gains valence. I suggest using "an" as the first word of the next line to retain the effect.
To take the scrub further, the poet might replace the "of" in line one with a comma. See how punctuation can replace syllables in this revision of stanza three:
She spots a shadowed grove:
littered deadfall,
like corpses strewn across a battlefield,
blemishes the landscape—soft
dark greens, tinged with sunlight.
If the resulting sound strikes you for some reason as more "poetic", this is because density is a quality associated with poetry. Certainly there is now more elegance to this language, greater dignity.
A second difference between poetry and prose has to do with rhetoric. Poems are built upon the logic of metaphor, so we never need to justify or establish their use. This means, for instance, that "as though" from line seven could be scrubbed.
Another place extraneous syllables hide is in complex verb tenses and in prepositions that commonly accompany them. "Standing" in line five, for example, could be "stand". "Up" after "conjure" (line 21) and "down" following "weighted" (line 29) can fall away without altering the meaning.
Prepositions like this are actually a kind of redundancy. Excising redundancies is not quite the same as a scrub (see November 2010's Critique Corner for a fuller discussion) but they are closely related. Take, for example, the phrase "adorned, hung, and weighted/down with ornaments" from stanza three. The conceit is contained in the words "adorned" and "ornaments". This is ironic, since these decorations are of "flesh and blood". Irony is strong stuff and strong stuff is what this poem calls for. The other descriptors dilute its strength.
In practice, scrubbing amounts to close line-editing. To provide a full impression of how this is done, I will go through the poem in its entirety, providing a rationale for each revision in the parentheses that follow each stanza:
Mile after mile, trees border
highway. She gasps.
Maples' fiery red, creamy
white petals of Magnolias,
verdant Evergreens,
side by side, line forest wall,
guarding its history.
(Beyond the changes discussed above, I have removed the verb in line five as trees can be assumed to stand.)
It's her first visit to the south.
An early morning breeze rushes
through the car's open windows,
battering her hair.
Her eyes greedily search
for the unfamiliar.
(I have used punctuation to replace a syllable in line five. I have also removed "windswept." Battered hair is windswept. "Battered" is strong choice in a poem about physical violence and should be preserved.)
She spots a shadowed grove.
Littered deadfall,
like corpses strewn across a battlefield,
blemishes the landscape—soft
dark greens, tinged with sunlight.
(Discussed above. Notice how the change in punctuation allows the verb in the fourth line to be more active.)
She hears a chorus of sounds:
rustling among trees;
ghostly whispers conjuring visions—
secrets buried long ago, in unmarked,
unblessed graves.
(The use of a colon at the end of the first line indicates a list, which allows for some syllables to be excised.)
Passing trees at 65 mph, she strains
her neck with a quick look back;
an Oak whose branches, history records,
were once adorned
with ornaments of flesh and blood.
("Tree" and "Oak" are redundant. This version is a bit cleaner. The revision of the last two lines was discussed above.)
Shrinking from visions
of roots permanently stained dark,
reddish-brown with the life force of her
ancestors, she curses the wrath inflicted
upon God's own likeness.
(We can assume that the visions are unwanted because she has shrunk from them. More importantly, removing "tree" from the second line supplies "roots" with a second meaning. That is, roots in an ancestral sense.)
Off to the side, away from the trees
stands a Willow. The sway of its branches
in the breeze, calm, hypnotic, brings her
back to the moment. She can't help
but compare its grace to the stock-still
branches of the surrounding trees.
(Here I have not changed a word. Why? Because in this stanza, which invokes the association of the Willow with the gospel, the poem "turns". Allowing the language to remain lush in contrast to what has previously been spare reinforces the change in tone. It makes the previous revisions more expressively meaningful, which is always the reason for making any revision. If I were not using this to make a point, however, I might suggest striking "back" from the fourth line.)
Again, the sounds of the forest
sweep the leaves;
less frightening, less haunting,
a voice whispering, "forgive them
for they know not what they do."
(The poem has now turned. Remaining as economical as possible as it resolves will strengthen its drama. Of course, a sound cannot "sweep" as in line two. This is an example of a device called synesthesia, which blends the senses. It is an arresting technique, very useful for expressing a heightened sense of awareness.)
"Whispers" is a serious poem. The dignity that a scrub produces suits it. But is Fred Marchant correct? Can every poem use a good scrubbing? I don't think so. Poems that are conversational or in dramatic persona may have an expressive reason to sound casual. Poems that are metered sometimes require extra verbiage so as not to sound stilted.
Rather I would say that every poem deserves a scrubbed draft. The options this technique offers line by line are always worth considering, even if, ultimately, some or all of them are rejected. In other words, a scrub is one stage in the larger process of revision.
A word of caution about this: I often find that when a syllable is removed the rhythm changes. If I am close to the poem, especially if I have only recently composed it, I resist the change. There is a certain rhythm in my mind and I feel adamant that it is the correct one. Experience has shown me, though, that if I set the poem aside for some time, I discover the cleaner choice is the stronger one. Another good way to test whether a scrub is working is to ask someone else to read aloud the lines in question. You may be surprised by how powerful they sound.
Where could a poem like "Whispers" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Cafe Writers Open Poetry Competition
Entries must be received by November 30
Writers' group in Norfolk, England offers prizes up to 1,000 pounds for unpublished poems; online entries accepted
Prism Review Poetry and Fiction Prizes
Entries must be received by November 30
Literary journal of the University of La Verne in California offers $200 for unpublished free-verse poems; enter online
Writer's Digest Poetry Awards
Postmark Deadline: December 1
National writers' magazine offers top prize of $500 for unpublished poems up to 32 lines; no simultaneous submissions
Gemini Magazine Poetry Open
Postmark Deadline: January 2
Online journal offers prizes up to $1,000 for unpublished poems of any length; enter by mail or online
This poem and critique appeared in the November 2011 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Categories: Poetry Critiques
