Lazy, lazy, lazy

That's me.

As much as I want to write my best poems, I also have a strong desire to be done. Okay, that one's ready! Maybe I stop too soon. Maybe I need to explore more, dig a little deeper.

Over the weekend, I had an idea about how to expand an older poem that has been on my list to overhaul. Here is the original poem:

Agnes Rose


It shares the name of my grandmother
and blooms with the same delicate sensibility,
softly fragrant, pale yellow—

the color of morning
or a woman’s dress as she walks onto the porch,
braces against the omniscient wind.

Maybe she raises a hand against early glare,
gazes across the rows of potatoes and peas,
the gnarled apple tree grown ancient so soon,

and she steps down toward the path
that curves under dark firs
to the sheltered scarf of her own rose garden,

My shrubs grow rangy, riddled with blackspot
except for this stoic rugosa that proffers both roses
and the woman who rests in memory, in earth, in her name.

I was thinking about how the need to do everything perfectly can sometimes serve as a deterrent to doing anything at all. My grandmother, who had a degree in home economics, was like that. The burden of perfection weighed on her. I came up with this revision:

Agnes Rose


It shares the name of my grandmother
and blooms with the same delicate sensibility,
softly fragrant, the pale yellow

of morning or a woman’s dress
as she walks onto the back porch,
braces against the reckless wind.

Maybe she raises a hand against early glare,
gazes across the rows of potatoes and peas,
the gnarled apple tree grown ancient so soon,

and she steps down toward the path
that curves under dark firs
to the sheltered scarf of her own rose garden.

Agnes planted hybrid teas, showy blossoms
as bright as egg yolks. But the chicken coop
sat empty, and her cooking days were done.

She knew the full measure of perfection,
how everything must end up just so.
until it wasn't worth the trouble,

We can just sit and visit, she said,
although she let me deadhead the lilacs
and sometimes the columbine,

and we drove down the hill
to Vicki's Café. Her pans kept clean,
her stove shiny and white.

My own kitchen is a ruckus,
and the garden is riddled with weeds.
My shrubs grow rangy, shot with blackspot

except for this stoic rugosa
that offers both roses
and memory, the woman who rests
in earth, in her name.

I wanted to say, "Done!" and "Yea! Maybe this will work!" But it doesn't seem finished. And maybe it makes my grandmother sound lazy, which was not my point.

So now I'm thinking of another rose poem that's been on my list to revise. Maybe I need to somehow combine it with this one—a mashup? (Is that the right word now?)

Here is that other poem:

Rose Surgery


Disease blackens tender foliage ears,
erupts in clusters on green leaves,
runs rampant through the beds.

In dazzling blue May,
I take up the expected instruments,
cut my losses with worn blades.

By leaf and limb, I operate,
pare old growth back to clean margins—
bone, cane, any green wood.

With each calculated clip, the shrubs grow smaller.
I should have pruned more vigorously
in the early year—cut hard when I had the chance.

No pardon for the delicate.
I sacrifice most of a rose to save the rest,
that what’s left may fade or flourish.


Will they fit? Now I'm having a hard time seeing how. Or is it just an idea in this poem that I need to find and use? I have my work cut out for me.

(SORRY!)

Do you ever piece together old poems?

How do you know when you aren't done? A gut feeling? Some process that works for you?