Today’s column is about how specificity works in a poem and what it can do for the landscape of the piece. We’re going to use Ruth Stone’s poem, “Pokeberries,” as an example. But before you take a look at it, we wanted to share our “revision” of that poem. If you are familiar with the original, our changes will stand out immediately. Give it a read anyway, whether you’ve read the original or not, and try to focus on how the poem makes you feel and how it resonates with you.
Pokeberries
I started out in the mountains
with my grandma’s bed
and my aunt’s wine.
We lived on very little.
My aunt scrubbed right through the floor.
My father was a northerner who was creative
and made some bad decisions.
He married my mother on the rebound.
Who would want a girl like that?
They took a train up farther north
and someone stole my father’s belongings.
My whole life has been imperfect.
No man seemed right for me. I was awkward
until I found where I belonged.
There is no use asking what it means.
With my first paycheck I bought my own
place; I had lamps and a road.
I’m sticking here like an animal, waiting,
like one that’s been shot. No amount of knowledge
can get my grandfather out of me;
or my aunt; or my mother, who didn’t just like living.
She loved it.
Now, keeping the “revision” in mind, read the original piece:
Pokeberries
I started out in the Virginia mountains
with my grandma’s pansy bed
and my Aunt Maud’s dandelion wine.
We lived on greens and back-fat and biscuits.
My Aunt Maud scrubbed right through the linoleum.
My daddy was a northerner who played drums
and chewed tobacco and gambled.
He married my mama on the rebound.
Who would want an ignorant hill girl with red hair?
They took a Pullman up to Indianapolis
and someone stole my daddy’s wallet.
My whole life has been stained with pokeberries.
No man seemed right for me. I was awkward
until I found a good wood-burning stove.
There is no use asking what it means.
With my first piece of ready cash I bought my own
place in Vermont; kerosene lamps, dirt road.
I’m sticking here like a porcupine up a tree.
Like the one our neighbor shot. Its bones and skin
hung there for three years in the orchard.
No amount of knowledge can shake my grandma out of me;
or my Aunt Maud; or my mama, who didn’t just bite an apple
with her big white teeth. She split it in two.
It’s fairly obvious what we did to the poem, removing as much of the specific language as possible and substituting more general terms. The pokeberries are reduced to berries. The Virginia mountains become a generic mountain range. Aunt Maud becomes any aunt, and even the endearing terms “mama” and “daddy” are changed to the more formal, and less intimate, “mother” and “father.”
Where examples were used to show the character of someone in the poem, such as “My daddy was a northerner who played drums / and chewed tobacco and gambled,” we substituted in statements about the person instead: “My father was a northerner who was creative / and made some bad decisions.” Where the quality of living is shown in the poem’s last lines: “or my mama, who didn’t just bite an apple / with her big white teeth. She split it in two,” we reduced the lines down to the idea behind them: “or my mother, who didn’t just like living. / She loved it.”
Do all these changes we made to the piece make Stone’s poem “bad”? Not necessarily. We certainly weren’t trying to write a stunning revision. In fact, for illustration purposes, we were trying to do just the opposite. (Stone, however, is such a strong writer that the sturdy framework of her poem comes through even with the changes.) But the revision is certainly weaker, by far, than the original. And in this case, the strength — as we’ve illustrated by showing what happens without it — comes from the specific details and the showing, as opposed to telling, that give this piece such grace and immediacy.
When we see “Virginia mountains” we have a strong sense of place. When we read, “We lived on greens and back-fat and biscuits” we learn so much more than the first thought that might come to mind when writing a draft of a poem, “We lived on very little” or the cliche notion of “just scraping by.” Inside Stone’s words an entire life unfolds, complete with all the detail that makes the speaker’s life — in that particular region, at that point in history, and in that family — unique.
This poem brings up an many interesting points of discussion about specificity and detail, which is our focus of this installment of “Workshop Redux,” one of which is that some writers will talk about avoiding or at least questioning the use of “extra” language in a poem, and examining the use of every modifier. Is the modifier needed? Does it add to the poem? Is there another word that could serve in the place of a modifier-noun combination?
That is certainly sound advice, but this poem also exemplifies what happens with language, including modifiers, when used with precision and when no substitute will do without compromising the overall world the poem is creating.
How did you feel when you read the “revised” version of Stone’s piece? What effect did the removal of the specifics have on your ability to place yourself in the poem, or did you feel the poem was inhibited by the changes? When you write drafts of new poems, do you find yourself gravitating toward phrases that could be either “packed up” into cleaner, more streamlined language or, on the other hand, that might be better to “unpack” into more detailed and specific language?
We would love to hear your responses in the comments or any other thoughts or questions you have about how specifics serve to fuel a poem. So get your comment on!
Also, we have created a new forum thread in each of our critique groups called “Workshop Redux: Specificity.” If you have a piece that you want examined solely for specificity of language, you can add it to the thread for whichever critique group you belong to. This is a great way to get your feet wet with both critiquing and having your work critiqued in a very directed way by looking at just this one aspect of the poems being submitted. We hope members will jump in and start a lively discussion about how details inform your work.
The Workshop 101 Forum is here. The Workshop 201 Forum is here. And the Workshop 301 Forum is here.
(All the rules of the critique groups still apply, so make sure you take a look at those guidelines before sharing or critiquing work. If you don’t belong to a critique group, all you need to know is listed in our navigation bar at the top of the page under “Workshops.”)
Ruth Stone’s “Pokeberries,” from What Love Comes To: New and Selected Poems (2008), appears courtesy of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Dana Guthrie Martin is the founder of Read Write Poem. In 2010, she is taking a break from completing poems so she can study their component parts, while at the same time learning a new musical instrument, most likely the oboe.
There is a lot of value here. I teach writing and talk about specificity but this example shows it, succinctly and brilliantly.
Fabulous!
Dana Guthrie Martin replied:
November 25th, 2009 at 11:25 pm
Thanks, Julie. I am thrilled that Copper Canyon let us use the piece as an example. It’s really easy to “unwrite” a poem — stripping out what makes it great. If only it were so easy to go the other way and write one.
Boy oh boy, am I in trouble here?
Honestly, honestly, if you ask, where do I feel most at home between these two – I’d have to say the first (the revised version)! And I read, understand your commentary, and agree in principle, certainly. Real specifics can make a reader feel connected, even involved. No question.
However, then what? Is it partly just a matter of individual taste? A manner of degree? In art I tend towards the impressionistic rather than realistic. The blurred uncertain edge is where I find entry into my own wondering, into continuing the piece within my own thoughts and feelings and sensibilities. Just a matter then of taste?
I have a strong sense of the easy movement (for me) of the revised poem. As water might swiftly flow and pass over the rounded colors of rocks in its bed – yet without lingering. I tended to feel more bogged down in the specific details of the original poem version – slower than I wanted to move. Then again, I prefer simple and brief. Although there’s a difference between comprehensive and embellishments. How might that also be at play here? Pace is certainly a big question here, and neither answer is incorrect.
I’d agree, but to a matter of measure, the revision could be here and there more fully fleshed. By example, changing the revised line,
and my aunt’s wine INTO
and my aunt’s dandelion wine.
That’s more detail, creates more “interest”, and without really changing the flow.
Further, a line like,
My father was a northerner who was creative
and made some bad decisions.
I take delight in the mystery of some vagueness here. I feel a higher potential of question and energy, rather than having something spelled out in more complete detail.
Mind, I like both versions. But I think there is something positive to appreciate about the less precise revised version too. Maybe it is just a question a poem has to answer for itself? What kind of feeling does the poem want to generate? Sparse does not have to mean incomplete.
So may I both agree and welcome an alternate?
One last, not least. Reading many poems of newer writers, yes, often I would suggest both increased use of alternate wording AND further fleshing out of details. Then later, edit down to the more essential phrasing as suits the specific nature of the poem. So yes, I get to agree and disagree with myself in that respect.
Dana Guthrie Martin replied:
November 25th, 2009 at 11:31 pm
This is a great response, Neil. That’s the kind of thing we hope people will look at — and exactly the type of analysis we hope people will give — when they share and workshop poems on this topic in the forums we set up to accompany this piece.
I agree that differences in tone and texture arise when we have more, or less, specificity in a poem. Each poem we write will have a different set of criteria for which way to lean. But it’s always interesting to look at a poem through this lens and ponder what would be gained and lost by adding or removing detail.
For me, comparing the two, it’s all about rhythm and meter. The revised version, in spite of being more economical of words and shorter in line length feels much more leaden and prosaic.
As an example, in the first four lines the meter causes musical and subtle though emphatic pauses in the lines:
I started out (metrical pause) in the Virginia mountains
with my grandma’s (metrical pause) pansy bed
and my Aunt Maud’s (metrical pause) dandelion wine.
We lived on greens (metrical pause) and back-fat (metrical pause) and biscuits.
It’s these subtleties that tend to make a line verse and not prose. The revised poem covering the same ground lacks the lilt and the music, as well as the personalizing word choice that makes a poet’s tone his or her own.
I agree that there is a choice between specificity and the lack thereof a poet must make everywhere in a poem. It’s like in fiction where one must decide when to outline with broad strokes, and where to draw out with blow by blow description and dialogue. If you do it always your work is bloated and overlong. If you do it nowhere, all you’ve got at the end is a lifeless synopsis. You have to pick your spots, and always go for the win-win situations where simply by choosing an equally long but more unique and imaginative approach you write verse instead of prose, and good verse instead of bad.
Ruth Stone’s ending is no longer really than the revised version’s, but it’s so much more musical and powerful through its music, word choice, tone and personalizing, intimate detail:
No amount of knowledge can shake (strong verb) my grandma (intimate word) out of me;
or my Aunt Maud; or my mama (intimate word), who didn’t just bite an apple
with her big white teeth (very visual). (midline end of sentence setting up punchline ending) She split it in two (powerful and moving punchline).
For me there’s no drag and all kinds of gain from the detail and music in the original version. I think similar process is evident in the middle of the poem as well, and overall this is tight, facile and mellifluous piece, one that’s not slowed or weighed down by “deadwood.”
I understand Neil’s points, and agree with them wholeheartedly in principle. I think he’s absolutely right about alternate wording and fleshing out. In fact, I think we may be saying the same thing in slightly different ways. The one place where maybe we see things a tiny bit differently is with this particular piece, which I prefer in its original version. Neil does seem to like something in between the original and revised versions rather than the revised version per se, and nothing’s perfect, so he may be right there there are places where even a good writer like Ruth Stone could stand for some trimming.
I just wanted to raise the issue of music, which I heard a bit more of in the original.
Dana Guthrie Martin replied:
November 26th, 2009 at 11:07 pm
This is a great response, David. And article in itself, really. I am inclined to do scansion on all of Stone’s lines now. For one thing, scansion is fun. For another, it’s always helps me see that poetic rhythm that you’re talking about.
It is interesting to me as the revision seems to have flattened out the poem. The original pulled me in with the promise of a story. The original also sings out in a beautiful way. The whole rhythm was lost on the revision. I know the poem was revised to be more specific, but I could feel more from the original, or get lost in the poem more and roll it around in my thoughts. With the revision I felt I had no room to speculate on all of the people involved. For the record I loved the original!
I agree with Julie in this aspect — the best teachers show examples of merit rather than just talking about features of merit.
I agree with Neil — a poem can leave an impression to which the reader responds according to taste (likes or dislikes). In part, this impression comes from “tone.” A poem of generalities (instead of specifics) may deliver a kind of distant tone, a surveying-from-a-distance, a hovering narrator, a kind of timelessness shed of detail. Some readers may prefer that tone over an insistent familiarity. Often, I do, too.
I agree with David — so much of poetry is about rhythm. Thank you for pointing out this important aspect of all poetry (and prose, too, no?). Whether or not a poem is metrical, it has rhythm. Free verse, of course, being free of strict metrics, nevertheless has rhythm.
I think another aspect of this poem (related to all points already made) is the presence of figures of language. Poems are figurative language. That is, the many details presented serve several purposes: not only to provide the reader with lush vivid images, or to distribute rhythm, but also to double-duty those images as figurative metaphor, similes, symbols, etc. For example, all the specific images of things high/low, up/down, north/south, ground/sky relates to the theme of “shaking out” — what of our past shakes out of us when we grow up? do we, like an apple, fall far from, or close to, the tree? or rot on the tree?
Does anyone agree with me that the poem might also be formatted in two stanzas, with the second stanza beginning “My whole life”? I wonder about the semicolons…hmmm…would this poem’s plainspeaking gal use semi-colons?
[...] topic of Dana’s inaugural “Workshop Redux” column was specificity — the role specific language plays in making a poem more (or less) [...]