Life
 

Drummer

The metal you reach, the moments you crash,

the muscle you lay into playing for cash,

the feelings you hope you might one day express, 

your gift and your eminent grab (more or less)

determine the sprawl and the shape of your pocket,



the tilt of your swing, the jazz in your rocket,

the shine of your skin, the height of your chair,

the twist of the keys on the side of your snare,

the hole in your bass, the decades of wear

and a feeling that comes from the-devil-knows-where

with a mass dissolution of most of your gear,



the darkness of dancers, the silence you find

in the hall of confession, the back of your mind,

the pace of your heart, the staggering light,

the small set required for keeping it tight

and an echo of lines you may one day recite

in the studio space of the oncoming night.




___
The top of the poem was:

Life



In the beginning, you are surrounded by drums. 

Hundreds of tom toms. As many cymbals, 

some within reach, casting sunlight and

shadow on the silver, red, glitter and blue

pans and cylinders before you and the network 

of pedals far (at least for now) below your feet.

Piles of sticks and brushes. Clubs and hammers,

violence and joy. An almost immediate rhythm
as you pelt the white drumhead at you belly,

the sharp round and singular snare.



Whatever you claim, you will add it from there. 

Whatever you drop, whatever you tear

or shatter or crack,

what follows you back

will amount to your kit, or your set or your stack.





Line 4: eminent was self-conscious

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Hi, Rick!

For me, the poem begins at

     The metal you reach, the moments you crash,


I found what comes after that surprising and riveting. What comes before that, including the title, spells out "All this is a metaphor — and what a lot of different percussive instruments there are!" in a way that is just a little too on-the-nose for me. I did like the "violence and joy."

The details in the later part of the poem are far more interesting than the lists in the earlier part, probably because I can form a cohesive image of a drummer at a drum kit from the last part, but not the first.

I'm not 100% sure that I wouldn't take "metal" to mean "money" if the poem began at the line I quoted, especially since it's followed by "cash" in the next line. But I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. The penultimate strophe makes the context unmissable.

(The more regular formal structure of the last three strophes probably appeals to me personally, too, so take my comments with a grain of salt.)

Enjoyed.

Thanks Julie,


Extremely helpful. I am considering a title change to Drummer and starting where it starts for you.

My intent is probably clear in what I've posted, the chaos of everything coming under control as we start playing and choosing or reaching the drums and cymbals we'll use. The meter kicks in after a stanza of free verse.

But I really like your idea.

Rick


NB: Top eliminated. Thanks again Julie.

.
Wow what a revision! The title change works wonders. The metaphorical effect now resounds in every line, the rhythmic thudding. A drum solo of a poem.

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Lovely poem, Rick.
It reminds me very much of John Whitworth's work.

Jayne

Rick, I think Julie's instinct was right about where the poem really takes off. Leaving it less tied down to particular facts opens it up more.

Susan

Hi Rick,

This is greatly improved. I wish though you had left the original (which I saw soon after it was posted, and which Julie saw too, as I know because her comment was already present) up on the board as was, so that passive members of the workshop, and late arrivers, could find it instructive, both in the applicability of Julie's advice, and in your revision skills.

All the best,
Jim

Thanks folks,

Jayne, very nice of you to say so--Thanks!

Jim, I'd prefer to leave the head rolling at the bottom and present the poem in its current state. That's more or less my approach to editing poems here.

Again, Julie, thanks. I dug in and resisted your suggestion for less than three minutes!

RM

Yes, great revision, Rick. The verse-ending enjambments - not a revision, I know - add to the whole thing a propulsive force that the poem had already. In spades.

Cheers

David

Thanks David,

Nothing like cutting from the top!

I like what's left after the hefty beheading. The poem to start with was experimental, I guess you would say. And I'm happy that most of the original has qualities on its own.

Rick