Editing Over-workshopped Work

So I was looking again at an older poem of mine that I had included in my first draft of my thesis. Matthew liked it but told me it needed to be stranger. This is one of those poems that got worked and worked over the last six years. I had a workshop with Jane Hirshfield a couple of years ago where she said she thought people workshopped too much, that workshopping can "take the finish" off poems, take the shine off them and make them boring. I think that was the case with this one. I went back to a number of versions of the poem looking for the interesting spots I'd taken out and brought them back. I had tried a number of forms in the various versions, what you see in the new version is a mashup of these forms as I brought the older material back in. I decided I found that interesting as it seemed to fit the poem.   I also shifted to first person for more immediacy. Sara also consulted, suggesting the indents used in one section, which for me added a lot, making that material more of an aside and allowing it the different form with the first letter of each line capitalized and no punctuation. Sara also suggested the elements from the Catholic Mass be italicized, another good idea. Below is the new version of the poem followed by the original.

Questions Should Be Asked 

There are words that I keep forgetting

like possum or spoon. Sometimes I feel

them behind other words. There are dark 

shadows under my eyes.

What are those birds?

What is this wilderness?

(my eyes are closed

on the 100D Flemington Park bus)

When I was small I came to this city, the pigeons strutted the sidewalk and short, old Italian men pushed red carts by the museum, roasting chestnuts. My mother bought a small white bag for me, it was warm in my palm as my hand gripped it. There was a burnt aroma as I peeled the brown skin from the hot meat. All the dry leaves blew down the avenue and away into the fall sun that day.

(open my eyes)

A man depends on something

A memory of his father and mother

Or last lover

A small white bag in the open palm of his hand

And then he can go into the world

Where he will learn about winning and failure

One day he is playing with his best friend

In the playground 

And then next thing they know 

They are sitting on a park bench

Looking at the scar that runs through his old-man chest

(this is my stop)

The man busking at Bloor and Avenue Rd.

tells me the angels will dance in the sky the night he dies,

a white pigeon pumpjacks his head  towards the concrete,

I cannot be sure of anything,

maybe it is the way the shadows fall here at dusk,

every day I am filled and then emptied, I can only

hope it starts again. 

A man depends on something,

the memory of his mother or father

or a small white bag in the open palm of his hand.

(This is one of the five places where I sleep at night) 

What I have done, what I have

failed to do, in my thoughts

and in my words.

I woke up one day and knew part of me

had left while I slept.

Questions Should Be Asked

There are words that you keep forgetting

like possum or spoon.

(your eyes are closed

on the 100D Flemington Park bus)

You came to this city when you were small,

pigeons strutted the sidewalk by the museum, 

old Italian men, red push carts roasted chestnuts, 

small white bag, warm in your hands.  Burnt aroma 

when you peeled the brown skin from the hot meat.

(open your eyes)

The old man at Bloor and Avenue Rd

tells you the angels will dance in the sky the night he dies, 

a white pigeon pumpjacks his head  towards the concrete.

You can’t be sure of anything,

maybe it is the way the shadows fall here at dusk,

every day you are filled and then emptied.

A man depends on something,

the memory of his mother or father

or a small white bag in the open palm of his hand.

You woke up one day and knew part of you

had left while you slept.