Jennifer Scissorhands
It's been pruning season, lately, as I look over my collection. *SNIP* out comes those four lines of explication; if they don't get it, too bad -- *SNIP* that stanza, full of good stuff as it may be, doesn't need to be there and it's gone -- *SNIP* there goes that workshop advice you should never have taken -- *SNIP* too much anaphora -- *SNIP* hasta la vista, epigraph *SNIP SNIP SNIP*
Ahhhhh, it feels good. But just like any other kind of pruning, the magic resides in knowing when to cease and desist (learned that the hard way with a cypress last autumn).
One of the best things about submitting to journals (besides the potential for fame and fortune -- grin) is that it forces me to re-examine work I had considered "done". The downside of that, of course, is that I begin to wonder if they're ever "done", and should I be sending them out even now? Ah, well.
Ahhhhh, it feels good. But just like any other kind of pruning, the magic resides in knowing when to cease and desist (learned that the hard way with a cypress last autumn).
One of the best things about submitting to journals (besides the potential for fame and fortune -- grin) is that it forces me to re-examine work I had considered "done". The downside of that, of course, is that I begin to wonder if they're ever "done", and should I be sending them out even now? Ah, well.
posted by Jennifer at 10:06 AM
2 Comments:
I sort of like the idea that poems are never done. I wish I could publish a dozen different versions of one poem. Where do we get this idea that there's one best version? A jazz musician would be ashamed to play "Summertime" the exact same way every time. Why shouldn't we improvise an infinite number of versions of our poems (the lush version, the spare version, the loud, the soft, the raging, the cerebral ...)?
Good luck!
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