Drummer
Original:
The man, he seemed too light on his feet. His hands, they moved much too fast. The sound came from the drums. The deep vibrations through the heel, up into the chest, a woman, with her hand over her heart, smiling as she closed her eyes, swaying, in that erratic way, to the beat. No movement other than the hundreds on the street, their arms flying wildly, but the trees stood still. Revision One: Callused joints hit the ground louder than the drums the man with the ring on his finger hits with the palm of the hand he once planted in the desert. The wings from his back bounce on air, sinking into feral tipping points, curled around the lips of the woodpecker toes. A braided woman taps toward the rolling salt of the air with the browning mob of french torn feathers. Revision Two: Office leather pulling sound in, letting vibrations out, wiggling tummies that sat too long, breathing thought to be exercise. Air stale with overweight flavors of boredom. No way to trade for the life of the dark man drumming on the street, the balls of his feet bruising from the concrete, used to stomping slangkop in drought, never getting bit by the snake-head. Blood prints on the sidewalk near the wet paint sign. Revision Three: Tinkering toymakers tap. tap. tap.with the beat of the dark man drumming with the palm edge of his hand, leaving flakes on the sidewalk, littered with trash of the easy talkers, not trying for that lilting of the rib-cage, not interested in the pressure on the toes, pasted spandex on for clothing, less than a loincloth. Sun spikes off glass buildings throwing flowers out, wasting pale skinned lives away. Revision Four: Pale knuckles rap the beat stolen from the man in black skin, but he doesn't care. White paint melts from his face and someone plays in shoes he doesn't wear. Doppleganger bangers throw the sound in the air, with their arms in the air leaving it there, opposite parallel signs as neighbors. Revision Five: Callused knuckles pale from the rapping on the hide of the animal once skinned in the bosque of the Mesquite. Stolen beats from the man with gold on his finger and desert palms he once buried in the sand. The balls of his feet bruise on concrete, missing the stomp on slangkop in no rain. Blood prints stain sidewalk near a wet paint sign and someone steals the leather from his shoes. |
Process Memo:
The poem drummer, I had so much fun with. This was another one of the poems that I couldn't limit myself to the same content and same structure, although they are similar in the vein of structure, they aren't the "same," and I really liked that since they were changing every time. The original poem came from after workshopping my poem in class and the form I used for it helped me get my images out and I could see it better and I thought it begged to be in those structures. Revision 1, I wanted the close up of the African drummer, showing his callused joints hitting the drums, and the ring on his dark finger and then I started in on this wordplay adventure I couldn't stop. I thought the original had the lyrical nature to it, with its almost swaying language, moving the reader down the page easily, but the first revision I wanted to get a solid image of the drummer, but then it took off with language that was "feral tipping points" and "woodpecker toes" and then "french torn feathers" and truthfully, I wish I knew what that meant, but I had these phrases in my mind and I wouldn't be able to move on with the poem if I didn't put them down as part of the draft, however, I do think writing about an African drummer planting his palm in the desert almost calls for that faraway language that no one really understands, but it sounds pretty and in the city, an African drumming song may have all of this meaning and belief behind it, but who's to know what it means? They just know it sounds really awesome. Revision 2, I wanted to show the drummer compared with the people working in the city, busy with their dull lives, but I thought using objects like office leather and tummies wiggling in their chairs would lump these people together more effectively and make the only response they could have to this drummer is to be envious. For the form of this poem, I thought showing a curvy woman dancing, gives the poem a little more a musical feel, since I gave images of the balls of the man's feet bleeding on the sidewalk. Slangkop is slang for a plant in Africa that thrives in drought and shoots up out of hard packed dirt and using the word slangkop almost brings you into the slang of the city and how they talk in that clipped way, and create these terms that only they're aware of that show who the outsiders are. I also like the image of the sidewalk this desert in drought like this drummer could never escape it. Revision 3 the use of t's kept me going, starting with the tinkering toymaker tapping and then through to the trash of the easy talkers. Revision 4 and 5, I thought it was necessary to bring color into the poem and also words that are sometimes racially charged, especially being right next to each other. Words like pale, beat, rap. I thought those words brought the poem more into this world instead of being completely abstract. |