Workshop (wûrk shop) n. 2. An educational seminar or series of meetings emphasizing interaction and exchange of information among a usually small number of participants: a creative writing workshop.
That sounds all cozy and fun, hmm? Well, I had my first workshop experience this week. We turned in our poems, copies were made, and everyone reviewed the poems and offered suggestions. Does it still sound fun? It was rather like standing naked in front of a room full of people who discussed all my saggy bits and bobs and then offered suggestions on how to fix them. Constructive no doubt, but not really fun. Honestly, it was very helpful and I am beginning to see how to further refine and sharpen what I may have thought was a finished product. But editing, while constructive, is rather uncomfortable.
Here is my workshop poem:
And I rise.
Some nights I channel Dickens,
Endless apparitions
But with no hope of
Redemption in the end.
Because everything can seem hopeless when you go long enough without sleep. Every doubt and remembrance seems overwhelming. What if Scrooge was shown all his mistakes, but was not able to rectify even some of them? So I am tucking away my verse about Dickens to use somewhere else.
But then it changed. Toward the end it was about self doubt (mockingbird) and inspiration (thrush). They are literally symbolic for doubt (mockingbird) and poetry or song (thrush). Still yet, this may not be the final edit. Who knows? I do know that a writer must always be willing to edit, must always be willing to cut, and shift, and change. Even when the cutting draws a little blood.
* I have no clue what to do here yet.
That sounds all cozy and fun, hmm? Well, I had my first workshop experience this week. We turned in our poems, copies were made, and everyone reviewed the poems and offered suggestions. Does it still sound fun? It was rather like standing naked in front of a room full of people who discussed all my saggy bits and bobs and then offered suggestions on how to fix them. Constructive no doubt, but not really fun. Honestly, it was very helpful and I am beginning to see how to further refine and sharpen what I may have thought was a finished product. But editing, while constructive, is rather uncomfortable.
Here is my workshop poem:
Insomnia
Eyes closed,
Body dead tired,
Mind racing,
I am hungry for sleep.
Body dead tired,
Mind racing,
I am hungry for sleep.
Thoughts scuttle
Through my mind
Like spiders in a
Forgotten attic.
Through my mind
Like spiders in a
Forgotten attic.
Some nights I channel Dickens,
Endless apparitions
But with no hope of
Redemption in the end.
Endless apparitions
But with no hope of
Redemption in the end.
A mockingbird perches on my chest
Serenading me in those dark hours,
Its song eating away my peace,
Its black eye piercing my soul.
Serenading me in those dark hours,
Its song eating away my peace,
Its black eye piercing my soul.
The night wastes;
All is intangible
Nothing is concrete
It is useless to lie.
All is intangible
Nothing is concrete
It is useless to lie.
In the gray morning I am spent,
But the trills of the thrush
Awaken a truth within me,
And I rise.
But the trills of the thrush
Awaken a truth within me,
And I rise.
Post workshop initial edit:
Doubt
Thoughts scuttle
Through my mind
Like spiders in a
Forgotten attic.
Through my mind
Like spiders in a
Forgotten attic.
A mockingbird
Perches on my chest
Serenading me
Serenading me
In those dark hours,
Its song drowns
My words
Its black eye
Its black eye
Pierces *.
The night wastes
And in the gray morning
I am spent,
But the trills
But the trills
Of the thrush
Awaken *
Awaken *
And I rise.
What is interesting to me is that the poem started out literally about insomnia. Our instructor made an off-hand comment about Dickens in class and something flashed in my mind...
Endless apparitions
But with no hope of
Redemption in the end.
Because everything can seem hopeless when you go long enough without sleep. Every doubt and remembrance seems overwhelming. What if Scrooge was shown all his mistakes, but was not able to rectify even some of them? So I am tucking away my verse about Dickens to use somewhere else.
But then it changed. Toward the end it was about self doubt (mockingbird) and inspiration (thrush). They are literally symbolic for doubt (mockingbird) and poetry or song (thrush). Still yet, this may not be the final edit. Who knows? I do know that a writer must always be willing to edit, must always be willing to cut, and shift, and change. Even when the cutting draws a little blood.
* I have no clue what to do here yet.
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