A short introduction:
The earliest iteration of this poem came one morning after a realistic dream I had in 2019, I think. Or maybe 2018; it was a while ago, when all three kids were still in school.
I was driving them to school in the dream, playing the radio loudly. The streets were crowded and everything was normal except for one change: the sky was completely dark.
The Day We Woke to Darkness
The sun simply failed
to rise. We neared the end
of all things yet did not speak
a word. Radios droned unchanged
as we drove children
to school, obeyed traffic signals,
headlights bright, cars weaving
beneath a deep-indigo sky. Our
children might have asked
the questions we refused to voice
– whether earth had ceased
to orbit, tilted away in defiance.
We hushed their voices along
with the answers that might have
risen, continuing as though earth
had always spun through darkness.
The lack of strangeness was the strangest thing about the dream—as if nobody noticed there was no sun. Or nobody cared. I’m not sure which was more strange.
I submitted this poem for a workshop once.
Usually, when your writing is being “workshopped,” at least in the MFA program I attended at Fresno State University, you sit and listen as if you aren’t there. This can be helpful as you listen to what readers think about your writing—what takes they have on different aspects of it.
Several of my classmates read the poem as a social or political commentary. (I hadn’t offered the context—that the poem was based on a dream I’d had.)
This was an earlier version of the poem. I think it is the version I submitted to the workshop:
Waking to Darkness (2020 version)
The sun simply failed
to rise as we neared the end
of something
or all things.
We did not speak
a word. Radio stations
droned unchanged
as we drove children
to school,
drove ourselves
to work, obeyed
traffic signals,
headlights bright, weaving
past cars beneath
deep-indigo sky.
Our children
might have asked
the questions
we refused to voice
– whether earth
had ceased
orbit or spun away
ceaselessly
in defiance.
We hushed
their questions and hushed
answers that might
have risen.
We continued
into day as though earth
had always spun
in darkness.
I’m curious, which version do you prefer? Does either one stand out to you more?
The more recent one is shorter. Tighter. Generally, tighter is better when it comes to writing … but not always.
When I’m editing for new authors, especially a book-length work, a lot of my suggested revisions involve “editing down” or trimming—tightening the work to make it more precise, clearer.
There is one exception to this, though, and that’s when the author has already developed a writing style. They know how they prefer something to sound and basically need a second set of eyes to catch glaring errors … but they don’t necessarily want their prose tightened.
I am more that kind of writer, too. I tend to be wordy. I know what Stephen King thinks of adverbs, but I rather enjoy using them, thank you very much.
Perhaps this is why, when it came to choosing a form of writing to focus on in the MFA program several years back, I opted for nonfiction. I’ve written poetry since I was a child. I love writing (and reading) fiction and have several WIPs.
But I went with creative nonfiction instead of either of those. I admit, I was intimidated by the thought of studying poems for three years.
Poems require more precision.
Every word costs.
With nonfiction, I can meander a little more. I can follow a rabbit trail or even fall down a rabbit hole. Maybe or maybe not find my way back. (Hopefully, find my way back.)
But then, even when writing nonfiction (or fiction), writing should be precise and concise—even if it is at the same time meandering. Can it be both at the same time? Why, yes, it can.
Read Annie Dillard. Read Frank McCourt. Read Mary Karr.
Watch them meander and wonder for a moment where they are going … but you don’t really wonder for long because you are along for the ride; you are all in no matter whether they find their way or not …
Then suddenly they shine a light on a path you thought had been nothing but shadow and you are struck by wonder as brilliant as waking from a dream where all is dark because the sun failed to rise.
You open your eyes to a gentle dawn beyond thin-curtained windows and it feels for a moment like the first day or the best day merely because the sun has done once again what it has always done but it feels just this once like a miracle.
“I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.” - Annie Dillard
I enjoyed the most recent version best, although I thought your strategy to break out certain word on clear, individual lines was really interesting. You're definitely right though, the more recent one reads tighter, and in this particular case, that one spoke to me just a tad more! Beautiful poem, and I love that it came from an unusual dream!
I like the 2nd version- even more room for me to put myself into your writing. beautifully articulated & I agree, poetry is even more challenging than traditional writing. Every word costs. Brilliant!