Last night I participated in a free tele-class with acclaimed poet, Caits Meissner. I came across Caits' writing through my beloved high school friend, Jen Mazer. I'm loving Caits' work. It's vibrant, bright, and juicy. She's also an excellent instructor, as I learned last night.
The course focused on editing poetry-- a skill set where I'm in dire need of support! I rarely edit and given this habit, I miss out on an opportunity to hone and sharpen my work. Caits offered some great concrete tips to figure out the power of the poem & to shed anything that obscures its light.
In advance of this tele-class, I'd shared a poem that was recently published on Rebelle Society. Caits used this piece & a few others that were submitted by various writers, to demonstrate some of these editing tips in action.
In Death, I place you in the dirt and ask you to Live
Memories in plant shape, I can't
call you so I tend. Water your
roots or watch your growth. Now, we
commune under the sun, as we did. You've
shape-shifted & haven't I too? In every
moment and breath becoming a evolving
version of myself, unraveling from the
tapestry of what is, trying to define from
the whole. Me, holding watering can, a version
of woman, place, time, context, story, passions,
and vice. You, no longer responding in voice, now
leaves, greenery, stems, and roots as place-holder--
no, as life, drinking in sun, waving in wind-- a reconfiguring
of the what is.
It would be a loss if you were simply the void. But
I seek the void. I ask to be swallowed whole. I meditate
to loose my name, my tongue, the obsessions and doubts that haunt.
I seek gurus and teachers who tell me to let go, release my
grip on my name, on me.
You were flesh and known. You were named and held. You
were in conversation, in flow, in life. You ceased. The void
opened and offered you dispersal. And I don't know what you chose.
I chose to find you again, in a cutting of a tree. Rooting, planting near me.
I say you are matter, shaped in green and texture. Your stem is firm and lined,
your leaves are bright, serrated, sun-sucking. I say you have roots footing deeper
and wider into soil. Soil that may have claimed your skin, muscle, bone.
Claimed the physical of what I knew.
This could be a game I play with myself, to bind you to prakriti
when you are purusha. Maybe one day I will recite mantra, close eyes,
see everything. Maybe I will find the universe in the mouth of a child and follow
it, follow everything. On my wall, as a child, "Where did you come from
baby dear? Out of the everything and into the here." Embroidered, hung
as manifesto and written behind my eyelids like endless sheep on a slow slide to sleep.
So one day, as taught, as instructed, I follow the way back. Body,
relinquished. Name, hushed. Aversions, tendencies, wants, renounced. Hovering
in the place near sleep, like twilight, and absorbed.
Dispersed. Into the everything. Mingled with you again. The roots ripped
up, the leaves blown, matter diffuse. No more memory. No more. Just
light and air. No shape to shift.
Is that where it ends? Where it begins. That is where the seeking
stops. The mourning ends. No more sadness, loneliness. No
more memories of childhood mantra. No more me without you. Just
energy. Sunlight, illuminating us as particles on a beam
through an open window.
While wholly encouraging, Caits offered me the constructive feedback I need. Her main concern was the wordiness. She felt excess words weighed down the message, feel, and imagery of the poem. It's not the first time I've heard this! I remember in college, my best friend, Annie, took her scissors to everything I wrote. The end result was stronger, clearer writing.
With Caits' edits:
In Death, I place you in the dirt and ask you to Live
Memories in plant shape, I can't
call you so I tend. Water your
roots or watch your growth. Now, we
commune under the sun, as we did. You've
shape-shifted & haven't I too? In every
moment and breath becoming. Me, holding
watering can, you, now
leaves, greenery, stems, and roots.
It would be a loss but
I seek the void. I ask to be swallowed
whole to loose my name.
I chose to find you again in the cutting of a tree. Your stem is
firm and lined, your leaves are serrated
and sun-sucking. Roots footing deeper
and wider into soil that claimed your muscle and bone.
This could be a game I play with myself, to bind you to
prakriti when you are purusha. Maybe one
day I will recite mantra, close eyes,
see everything. Maybe I will find the universe in
the mouth of a child and follow
Dispersed. Into the everything. Mingled with you again. The roots ripped
up, the leaves blown.
Is that where it ends? Where it begins. That is where the seeking
stops. Sunlight, illuminating us as particles on a beam
through an open window.
Caits, your keen eye sharpened my work. Thank you for blowing off the dust, clarifying my vision.
I enjoyed both...the edited version is very crisp, supremely succinct
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