A friend of mine told me a story once about how poet Bill Knott teaches revision. She said that he would take the page (your poem), fold it vertically, and tear it down the center of the page. Next he would give back one of the halves and throw the other in the trash can. Then you were expected to try writing the poem again. Whether or not this is accurate, I’m not sure, but here’s a little exercise inspired by that story.
Take this half-poem by Ralph Angel and fill in the blanks. Have fun. Let us see what you get.
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Today, my
leaves are
just as ped
forbidding
and our li
are the li
getting thi
Impossible
or mouth,
each dis
is clear,
from he
Let your
space cro
that we
debris.
This mo
I swear
isn’t go |
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A friend of mine told me a story once about how poet Bill Knott teaches revision. She said that he would take the page (your poem), fold it vertically, and tear it down the center of the page. Next he would give back one of the halves and throw the other in the trash can. Then you were expected to try writing the poem again. Whether or not this is accurate, I’m not sure, but here’s a little exercise inspired by that story.
Robin Reagler 
This Day
Today, my wife
leaves are wedded
just as ped is child
forbidding that I return
and our lids
are the limbs
getting thinner
Impossible cheek
or mouth, holler
each dismissal, afternoon
is clear, it won’t go further
from he who then said
Let your basement
space croupier rent us out
that we may remit his back pay
debris.
This moment
I swear
isn’t go anywhere
This looks like fun. Makes me wish I were a poet…
I used this in poetry class today. I am attaching my version, followed by those of several of my poetry students. (I gave them a list of vocabulary words, which is why you’ll hear some overlap).
This Fall
Today, my mouth tastes the same spring your
leaves are dying under, and your hollow apples.
Just as pediatricians grope the glands,
forbidding, for the sex that lurks there
and our livid promise, so these scalded birches
are the lingering smells we peel away
getting thick mulch in our fingernails.
Impossible wilderness
or mouth, impossible tremor where
each disparate wind blooms. It
is clear finally, like the valley seems
from here.
Let your winter bode mine. Let the dark winds of
space croon like a January
that we learn over and over. We are
debris.
This moment
I swear
isn’t going to end.
_______________________
This time, Jill and Vicky have to sew their own costumes. Down with the Theatre department!
Today, my needle broke mid-stitch. The apricot
leaves are half-formed and jagged.
Just as pedestrians scurry from lane to lane
forbidding normal traffic flow
and our lines grow longer, so
are the lines of thread that dangle from the tapestry
getting things caught, snagging fingernails.
Impossible blisters form from tip to knuckle bone. Better
there than eye or mouth.
Each distinctive leaf is hollow. A speck
is clearer in its being. Cheeks grow flushed
from heat brought by exertion.
Let your rib break with the effort of creation.
Space crowds the boarders of the fabric so
that we are overwhelmed with nothingness. The
debris is clippings and discarded cloth.
This monument to restless sewing makes me mad,
I swear, wishing my scissors were scythes. I realize the material
isn’t gone, however far it moves and never is complete.
This moment too shall pass (or else I will eat chocolate)
Today, my fingernail cracked from the strain. Dying
leaves are twisting across the crabgrass
just as, peddling swiftly, the bicyclist pushes them away
forbidding beauty in pursuit of cardiovascular fitness
and our little blisters scream politely. Transfats
are the line we cannot cross.
Getting thinner is the rigid focus of your thoughts.
Impossible that a pebble should get in the way. Foot
or mouth, which is easier to do without?
Each dissolving ounce a victory! The end
is clears: calcium builds strong bones,
from healing wounds rebound.
Let your bleeding grease the wheels, empty
space croaked a sympathetic chord
that we stored away among the debris.
This moment too shall pass.
I swear to peel away the pounds: one bloody crash
isn’t going to stop me.
This Chore
Today, my golden piles of unraked
leaves are blanketing my yard
just as podiatrists blanket feet with cream.
Forbidding barnacles of cracked, flaking fragments
and our little rake prepare to make their culver.
Are the lives buried here more significant than the crabgrass?
It’s getting thinner and thinner in the formaldehyde darkness.
Impossible dreams pick through the massive crumbling hills.
Mouths open wide and black as piccolos blow taps into the gutter.
Each disheartened swipe brings forth aching shoulders, throbbing necks.
Clear droplets of dew hang on delicate blades and drip
from heavy wings of the fluttering starlings.
Let your jagged teeth comb over the masses of
space. Crouch and leap into the velvety whispers of dusty dampness
that we always seem to put off as mere
debris.
This moment, this chore,
I swear it now,
isn’t going in vain.
This Mourning
Today, my purple petals and
leaves are in tremors
just as pediatricians make children shake, always
forbidding them to cry. Our tongues
and our lips
are the lines
getting thicker and more rigid.
Impossible to distinguish edge
or mouth, but yet
each disapproval
is clear, jagged grease dropped
from helicopters of our discontentment.
Let your sweating mind consume the
space crops outside your window
that we built with bricks and iron, restless
debris. Scream.
This mourning,
I swear,
isn’t going to let the flowers bloom.
This Chance
Today, my world is changing.
Leaves are falling
just as petals move,
forbidding crabgrass from invading them
and our little badger has found that his companions
are the life of the party,
getting things out of the trash,
impossible discoveries of grease
or mouthwash,
each distinguished by its odor. It
is clear that mica is
from her lawn.
Let your pebbles stay in your
space. I feel
that we need to stop spreading our
debris and clean up after ourselves.
This moment is a chance to scold.
I swear this speck
isn’t going anywhere.
This heart
Today, my heart
leaves are jagged. They are
just as pedantic as a piccolo
forbidding lust.
And out little hands
are the light of 1,000 opals
getting thinner with age.
Impossible, the grease from your ears
or mouth makes
each distance bleed until meaning
is clear.
From here
Let your boxed
space crowed the empty room
that we fill with
debris.
This moment is empty.
I swear on the crabgrass beneath your feet. This
isn’t going anywhere.
This Breakup
Today, my
leaves are
just as pedestrian,
forbidding,
and our lilting rest
is the revet
getting this
impossible shiver
or mouth,
each barnacle
is clear, from here.
Let your mole
space crow
that we are
debris.
This mountain of cinderblock
I swear
isn’t gold.
This month
Today, my rottng
leaves are hollow
just as pedestrians whom I’m
forbidding to enter
our little shop.
Are the little jagged bastards
getting this close? It is
impossible to tune a piccolo
or the mouth of an idiot—
each disgusting mole
is clear. I see each blister
from her finger to her nose.
Let your scythe swing, death! clear
space, crop their larynx
that we may be free from this human
debirs.
This month,
I swear on my rigid mother’s grave, it
isn’t going to spread.
This “story” is nonsense.
I’ve never done anything of the sort.
I resent your publication of such a rumor.
——Bill Knott