Poetry Drafting: the Poet as Gardener

ft. first-thought, best thought, examples, and complicated feelings

A page from my notebook (ft. the long lost letter ‘thorn’)

I was once a firm believer in the philosophy: first thought, best thought. This is the belief in the purity of your initial efforts in forging a poem from the fire. The beat poet, Allen Ginsberg, was a big purporter of this method. My primary reason for subscribing to the philosophy was my insistence of poetry coming straight from the heart.

The first time I encountered poetry as a science was in 2019. I had gone to visit my father at his new apartment—post divorce. At that point in time, I barely had a publishing credit to my name, having begun my submitting journey two years prior. Sitting opposite one another in Viet Shack (a stellar Vietnamese restaurant), I received an acceptance letter with a condition. They claimed to like the poem, but subsequently insisted I re-write it at least three times. If I denied their request, my acceptance would be withdrawn.

This immediately put my nose out of joint. Who were they?! I showed my father so we could discuss my options. After much deliberation, I decided to withdraw my poem from submission. They then told me that the poem is always better after following their process. I found this to be rather presumptuous. To be completely transparent, I was particularly irritated by the whole thing, though I did eventually move on.

For those who are keen drafters, the act of doing it is instinctual. Contemporary poet, Naomi Shihab Nye, views revision as “another vision, a new vision, and how many can you have”. She goes on to claim it is the most exciting part of writing. This scientific approach is something I was previously vehemently against.

Many poets do not believe in divine inspiration; they see it as a fantasy. For me, the outpouring of the right words in the right order is my reality. However, there are days when it seems as if language hates my guts. I like to call it linguipation (linguistically constipated). The poet is a magician; a gardener of words. I suspect that those writers who push against the idea of the divine are afraid they have somehow failed because of inexperience.

There are quite a few handwritten drafts of Sylvia Plath’s poems currently held Smith College. They are most notably on pink memorandum paper:

A handwritten draft of ‘Stings’ by Sylvia Plath

It is an intriguing exercise to compare the drafts to the published version. You are able to see the lines that stayed and the ones that left. Some poets continue to rework long after publication, but I have not adopted this idea. While I am much more open to revision, if a poem has been chosen for publication, I accept that version and do not touch it. The only exception is that I may change the way it is laid out on the page. I also don’t believe that every poem should be rewritten. For some, the notion of a “shitty first draft” is a given, but that’s not the case at all. There have been times where all the words came in the right order, and I don’t cross anything out, nor do I rewrite it. For myself, poetry revision is not a prerequisite to the practice. If I feel it is necessary, I will partake, but if I am quite happy with my initial efforts, I leave well alone.

I recently entered the Keats-Shelley Prize 2024 with my poem, We Blue Stars. Upon awaiting the longlist, I told myself I would rewrite the poem if it didn’t place. When it inevitably didn’t, I opened my notebook. After many readings of the piece, I was no longer in love with it.

After ‘Cinderella’ by Valentine Cameron Prinsep

Cinderella under the stairs, eating your handful of stars,
What am I to do with you?

My cosmic wonder, hanging on the moon’s coattails,
Where am I to go without you: we blue stars?

All glitter and froth when we tell our little white lies,
The midnight tryst will someday end.

As will our swarm of glass laughs;
To collapse inward.

For the first few hours, I simply stared at the first line; the only part I would keep. Eventually, the new version revealed itself to me:

After ‘Cinderella’ by Valentine Cameron Prinsep

Cinderella under the stairs—
Eating your handful of stars,
From where do you hide your bouncing blue;
Your sky rejecting the course?

We blue stars are affixed,
Anointed by cosmic rain.
There is absence in the midnight hour—
A tower with flitting festoons.

Womb-blue, you have found fault with domesticity,
Have accrued a loaf of embitterment;
As finite as milk-cap.
But a dream is an electrocution.

Now, I still do believe this is essentially a different poem. It’s longer, more metaphorical, and much more focused on colours. The people I sent both versions to have agreed they prefer the revised version. This is really where my feelings towards revision become complicated. It’s at this point that the act of revision feels like being back at school, where you’re told how and what to think. The rigidity of that editor burrows in my mind like a rat escaping heat. If I think on it too much, I become a little resentful. While I logically understand that nobody has forced me to revise this poem, I feel as though I have failed myself. I ask: why am I changing the poem? Am I giving in to authority?

I reject the notion that everyone’s first efforts are terrible. Many of my poems, written in a few hours with minor changes, are accepted by journals. There is an idea that revision “always makes it better”. In my opinion, this restricts creativity. There is a need for instinct when it comes to writing poetry. At some points, you may find yourself fighting for a poem to stay as it is.

The poet is a vessel. Our poems communicate their needs to us. It’s almost like having a teenager who wants to experiment for the first time. All we can do is provide guidance and be there for them when they make mistakes. Personally, my poems speak through me as though I were a medium. Unlike many other drafters, I am quite easy-going. I loathe preferences being treated as a given. Not every poem is going to be crossed out or reworked, and not all of them should.

A famous example of a revised poem is Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott, whose original version was published in 1832, ten years prior to the version we know today:

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Plath and Tennyson aren’t the only poets to have been keen revisioners. T. S. Eliot worked on The Waste Land for seven-and-a-half years:

Held at the New York Public Library

Overall, I’m not entirely sure as to where I stand on poetry revision. I am certainly partaking in it, but I don’t believe it’s a total must. On a case by case basis, I am pushed to advocate for a second look at my work. As I have strongly stated, I do not believe that completely rewriting a poem is a prerequisite. A couple of rejections of one poem is not a reason to change it, just as having a few people tell you they hate your haircut is no reason to shave your head. Do it because you want to, not because you feel you have to.

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