I have an essay in the new book Poem, Revised, available now from Amazon and the publisher. The book examines the way poems are made, so to speak. Below I reproduce my own contribution. If you teach creative writing, you might consider requesting a free review copy from the publisher.
“54 Poems, Revisions, Discussions, Edited by Robert Hartwell Fiske. A behind-the-scenes look at the creation and revision of 54 published poems. A fascinating book for poetry students and poetry lovers.”
“The Magnificent Frigatebird,” by Ernest Hilbert. For many years I have enjoyed writing ekphrastic poetry. In ekphrasis, a poem is composed in response to a work of visual art, usually a sculpture or painting. The term derives from an ancient Greek descriptive rhetorical technique (the earliest example dates to 353 BC). Among the numerous opportunities afforded by my job at a large antiquarian bookseller is direct access to rare and exquisite examples of the bookmaker’s art. Over the years, I have been fortunate to handle assorted editions of John James Audubon’s iconic Birds of America. The plate that always struck me most keenly is that of the Magnificent Frigatebird (plate 271 of the elephant folio first edition, painted by Audubon in 1832, engraved, printed, and colored by R. Havell, 1835). Its nearly abstract structure recalled, for me, the imposing canvases of painters Robert Motherwell and Franz Kline. The Magnificent Frigatebird is one of the few birds posed by Audubon as if in motion rather than resting or grooming. Instead of perching on a log pecking its tail feathers, it dives and, in so doing, seems impossibly sleek and dangerous.
Many poets—I would venture to guess most—who choose to write on Audubon, and they are legion, tend to focus on the story behind the paintings. Audubon hunted a bird and then posed it with tethers and wire, like a taxidermist. He then hurriedly painted it in order to capture the freshness of the bird before rigor and decay set in. He also made notes regarding the culinary preparation and flavor of his birds. This is all quite interesting, but I wanted to join Audubon as he imagined the bird hurtling down on its prey, and so partake in the artist’s fantasy. I believe that the Magnificent Frigatebird is one of his most successful creations, so I decided to charge my poem with purpose and energy, as he did.
After spending some time with the strangely captivating bird, I began to scratch preliminary notes in my Moleskine, which I use as a commonplace book. Those notes steeped for months, during which time I meditated about the subject’s potential, though I could not bring myself to begin the poem. When I finally decided one summery Saturday morning to start, I flipped through my commonplace book and found these puzzling notes (when making notes, I underline words that approximate what I hope to say but that will be replaced at a later date):
Dark message falling
[????] with
like a fighter jet or toy
spacecraft
Destroys its [????] prey,
Target
It strikes | feels no
assaults | moment of
hesitation, guilt
or remorse. It is a black
beacon, chevron of darkness
descending
so fast it makes
no mistake
_____________________________
Sinister beside a
listening sea
_____________________________
while a soft furred
life pisses the dust of
its hidden corner
helpless/powerless except to
lower before strength
as absolute as death
Had I scribbled this mess? Needless to say, it did not seem like a great deal to work with, but the tone and central images were there.
I had devoted the previous year to my own breed of sonnet—what my friend Daniel Nester termed the “Hilbertian” sonnet—working toward a book to be titled Sixty Sonnets. Each is fourteen lines of iambic pentameter (though two examples in the sequence fall out of this meter: one is in octosyllabics, and the other, a string of epitaphs in trimeter), consisting of two sestets and a terminal couplet, rhymed ABCABC DEFDEF GG (I diverged from this scheme on one occasion to experiment with pararhyme, pairing fourteen high and low tones on a single rhyme). I find this modified brand of the classic sonnet serves me well in a variety of modes: satirical, elegiac, reflective, didactic, and absurdist. When writing in the ekphrastic mode, I tend to take my subjects seriously, and I endeavor to pack some gravity into the poems. I completed fifty-eight serviceable sonnets toward Sixty Sonnets (although I had more than sixty at one point, I discarded a number for their inferior quality). The final two required to complete the book eluded me. I chose The Magnificent Frigatebird to serve as muse for one of them (I have since completed the other, a Calavera).
After I baked my First Draft, I let it sit on the windowsill to cool a while. I thought I had better look into the zoological end of things before I proceeded, since I was so preoccupied with the purely aesthetic qualities of the painting. When I did, I realized that my line about “small furred things, pissing in the dust” (see below) would have to be struck. The Magnificent Frigatebird’s diet is pelagic, or “open sea,” so that ruled out any furred thing known to man. It is the largest of the five species in the genus Fregata and known for its swiftness and maneuverability. Because of its size, brute force, and highly aggressive nature, the Magnificent Frigatebird has also been called the Man-of-War or Pirate Bird (you will see that my additional research paid off). It supplements its diet of fish by attacking other birds, often robbing them of their catches. So, right out of my first draft, a line was struck (the preceding line would be struck as well, but for different reasons).
Here is what I will term the First Draft, constructed from my primary notes, with my first changes:
The sharp dark spike [thorn] plummets like a dive bomber,
Holding no moment of hesitation
Or stalled human position such as guilt.
The small furred things, pissing in the dust, are
Powerless beneath this black-light beacon, 5.
Long-beaked chevron of darkness, flashing, built
To kill, nightmare ink splatter [dash] aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so swift [fast] it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Balanced, sinister,
Over a glittering sea, the lethal bird 10.
Lingers for new prey, swivels and hovers—
Earth its vast coliseum [arena] and theater,
Supreme as a blinding sun, terrible
And perfect, death’s own finished miracle.
Correcting for diet and habitat, I wound up with what I will call First Draft (A):
The sharp dark thorn plummets like a dive bomber,
Holding no moment of hesitation
Or stalled human position such as guilt.
[Fish, in their darting silvery clouds], are
Powerless beneath this black-light beacon, 5.
Long-beaked chevron of darkness, flashing, built
To kill, nightmare ink dash aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so fast it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Balanced, sinister,
Over a glittering sea, the lethal bird 10.
Lingers for new prey, swivels and hovers—
Earth its vast arena and theater,
Supreme as a blinding sun, terrible
And perfect, death’s own finished miracle.
I was bothered by the weak use of the verb “are” as the fourth-line rhyme matching the all-important first line ending of the poem. The skittery verb was not up to the task I set it, but I decided to let it stand. I then packed up this modest First Draft—I was quite pleased with it at the time—and sent it to a friend, David Yezzi, the executive editor of the New Criterion. A casual chat over a glass of scotch with him is typically the equivalent of a master-class, and I trust him completely. He takes poetry very seriously and comments on the most meticulous aspects of rhythm and nuance as easily as the broadest of intention and symbolism. Upon reading my First Draft, the one over which I still glowed with pride, he telephoned me and straight away rebuked me on a startling number of points. My notion that the reader could somehow relate to the predatory bird was immediately dismissed as a naïve example of the sympathetic, or affective, fallacy. My evasive defence consisted of the argument that the bird could instead be viewed as majestically superhuman. This did not go over very well either. Yezzi pointed out that the grand, King James ending was not earned. The feeble poem could not support such weight, so the final couplet came to feel like a bit of sagging grandiosity. I asked him if he would let any living poet get away with it, and he answered no, though he provided a list of those who would be likely to do so anyway.
The poem also contained appalling redundancies, as one will observe in the third and ninth lines of the First Draft. There was room only for one of these lines, so the third was struck altogether. Yezzi insisted I needed to be more tangible, abandon the unmerited grandiloquent abstractions, and draw the tone far down from its original altitude, which he referred to as being “nose-bleed” high. My replacement of the second, third, and fourth lines required a recalibration of all corresponding rhymes down the chain. “Swivels” was abolished as being too Hopkins-like, and the word “balanced” did not, itself, feel very balanced in the line. The fish did not need to be described as “powerless,” so I gave them motion with a new verb placement (this also solved my problem of the flimsy “are” rhyme). The description of the bird as “lethal” was also judged superfluous and removed. I fought hard to keep “supreme,” and it has survived right to the finished poem. I proceeded to apply these numerous and acute changes to the First Draft:
The sharp dark thorn plummets like a dive[-]bomber,
Holding no moment of hesitation [No human moment of hesitation].
Or stalled human position such as guilt [It rushes through wind to unite with its goal].
Fish, in their darting silvery clouds, are [Fish gather in quick silver clouds, swell, veer].
Powerless [They swim] beneath this black-light beacon, 5.
Long-beaked chevron of darkness, flashing, built [vivid coal]
To kill, nightmare [Swiftly struck] ink dash aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so fast it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Balanced, [Poised and] sinister,
Over a glistening [glistening] sea, the lethal bird [Pirate Bird] 10.
Lingers for new prey, swivels and [Studies the breakers for new kills,] hovers—
Earth its vast arena [blank canvas] and theater,
Supreme as a blinding [midday] sun, terrible
And perfect [Selected], death’s [fond emissary] own finished miracle.
Once these modifications were in place, I needed to gain more control over the rhythm and pacing of the poem. At some points, the language had to speed forward, as if diving. At others it had to brake, as if hovering and observing. I used hyphenated words to drive the first sestet forward: “dive-bomber,” “long-beaked,” and “black-light,” later “black-lit,” which is more compressed. The “blinding” sun was deemed cliché and altered to “midday,” which falls nicely midway through the penultimate line, forming a rhythmic fulcrum. Yezzi considered the presence of both “arena” and “theater” to be superfluous, since either can refer to both entertainment and war, thus introducing more texture than a single line will sustain. I eliminated “arena” (I originally attempted to wrench the impossible “coliseum” into the line) and replaced it with “blank canvas,” which reinforced my original thought of the bird as an abstract artistic gesture.
I then recast the final line into something resembling its finished form. “Fond” struck us both as suitably ambiguous and mysterious. (I acted out a scenario: “look, mom, I made ambiguity,” “that’s nice, dear, just hold it over the sink.”) What, exactly, was fond, and what was it fond of? I alighted on this line only after thirteen revisions. These fixes left me with a legitimate Second Draft, but I needed a new third line, something that could add to the sense of forward (or descending) motion. I moved “human” up to the second line and left the third line entirely vacant for several days. I tried five or six different lines and settled on “The world is wind. What goes below is prey.” Although it scans beautifully, I was afraid that it would sound too much like Ted Hughes. Yezzi felt it sounded too much like David Jones, which amounts to more or less the same thing. Either way, it had to go (I admire both aforementioned poets for very different reasons, but this sort of weighty diction does not match my style). So I devised the line “it rushes through wind to unite with its goal,” before deciding to enjamb and extend the second line into the third and altering it to “In its rush through raw wind to join its goal,” which is made up entirely of rapid monosyllables that create the sensation of increasing velocity:
The sharp dark thorn plummets like a dive-bomber,
No human moment of hesitation.
The world is wind. What goes below is prey.
[It rushes through wind to unite with its goal.]
Alternately:
[In its rush through warm raw wind to join its goal].
Fish gather in quick[,] silver clouds, swell, veer.
They swim beneath this black-lit beacon, 5.
Long-beaked chevron of darkness in day [vivid coal],
Swiftly struck ink dash, aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so fast it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Poised and sinister,
Over a glistening sea, the Pirate Bird 10.
Studies the breakers for new kills, hovers [—]
Earth its vast blank canvas and theater [—]
Supreme as midday sun, brutal as the sea,
Selected [And chosen], death’s fond emissary.
The poem still needed to be polished. I aligned as many of the sounds and musical elements as I could without losing track of the sense of the poem, but the pace was not sufficiently defined. I added terminal M-dashes in the eleventh and twelfth lines to slow that portion of the poem down, in order to provide the feel of hovering majestically over the sea, and to set off the thirteenth line, which refers to human artifice in “canvas” and “theater.” I wanted to isolate it from the wild, authentic world of the bird. I then added “And chosen” to the last line and followed it with a comma. This final line is acephalus, or “headless,” since the first foot has an assumed, or inaudible, syllable, which, constituting the first half of an iambic foot would have been unstressed. This trait adds to the experience of airy suspension followed by sharp attack. Moving back up the poem, I added a much-needed comma between “quick” and “silver” to clarify that I was not using the word “quicksilver,” which is inappropriate in this environment. I changed “glittering” sea—which sounds a bit spangly and slows the line down with its unvoiced dental stop—and replaced it with the sibilant “glistening” sea.
This left me with a convincing Third Draft, which I took to be the Final Draft, with its newly installed lines and correlated later rhymes (some whole, some oblique; I tend to mingle both types in most poems unless I feel compelled to resort entirely to one or the other):
The sharp dark thorn plummets like a dive-bomber,
No human moment of hesitation
In its rush through raw wind to join its goal.
Fish gather in quick, silver clouds, swell, veer.
They swim beneath this black-lit beacon, 5.
Long-beaked chevron of darkness, lance of coal,
Swiftly struck ink dash, aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so fast it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Poised and sinister,
Over a glistening sea, the Pirate Bird 10.
Studies the breakers for new kills, hovers—
Earth its vast blank canvas and theater—
Supreme as midday sun, brutal as the sea,
And chosen, death’s fond emissary.
I then added the title, “Magnificent Frigatebird” (dropping the definite article) and the note “Fregata magnificens, John James Audubon, 1832
.” I showed the Third Draft to Yezzi and he charitably responded: “Wow. That’s a knockout. Congrats.” This is greater approval than I could have hoped for. The balm of praise quickly relieved the stings inflicted by earlier burrs of disapproval.
The terms “first” through “third” drafts are used for the sake of convenience and are hence reductive. They do not give full merit to the complexity and number of changes made to this poem, but they allow me a convenient frame in which to present my compositional process. Of course, many more small changes occurred right from the start, but endeavoring to record them all is a bit like trying to hold water in cupped hands. This is typical of my compositional technique. My changes usually number in the dozens or hundreds for a single sonnet. Moreover, wretched late changes will sometimes occur when, after months of living with a poem that seemed complete, I notice something I disapprove about the syntax, rhyme, or even philosophy of a poem, and the revision begins again. A change to any part of the poem will reverberate to other parts and necessitate additional changes until the synchronized whole settles again. Some poets, like Allen Ginsberg and Donald Hall, changed poems decades after they first appeared in print, but most of us are not permitted such luxury. Once a poem is published, the public may never see it again, so it is tremendously important to have all of one’s prosodic ducks in a row right from the start. Brisk and therefore bracing criticism is an indispensable component of this process for me, and I rely heavily on the opinions of a small circle of exceptional readers, who offer no quarter and seek no prisoners. This level of exacting criticism and confidential exchange of ideas has led me to further assurance as a poet and, with hope, mastery of my chosen forms. And so, voila:
Magnificent Frigatebird
Fregata magnificens, John James Audubon, 1832
The sharp dark thorn plummets like a dive-bomber,
No human moment of hesitation
In its rush through raw wind to join its goal.
Fish gather in quick, silver clouds, swell, veer.
They swim beneath this black-lit beacon,
Long-beaked chevron of darkness, lance of coal,
Swiftly struck ink dash, aiming down hard
Like a stealth fighter, so fast it suffers
No lapse of purpose. Poised and sinister,
Over a glistening sea, the Pirate Bird
Studies the breakers for new kills, hovers—
Earth its vast blank canvas and theater—
Supreme as midday sun, brutal as the sea,
And chosen, death’s fond emissary.
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