When is a poem a finished product?

[LVJuicyFruit]

My question is somewhat general, but came up as a result of a poem I posted in Another General C&C, currently titled 'The Unveiling', previously titled 'Comme Il Faut'. This particular poem received a lot of great critiques which helped immensely in writing a revision. The revision has also received quite a few critiques, actually I wonder consider them comments rather than critiques. These comments dealt with minor points (or what I consider to be minor points) such as a word choice here and there. The general consensus seems to be that this is a good poem and the imagery and metaphor are well-executed (that is my own interpretation, of course and I hope I'm not putting words in anyones' mouths).

My question is then, at what point do I/should I consider this poem 'finished', so to speak? I ask because, at this point, I feel I've written a successful poem and, more importantly, I've learned a great deal from the experience.

Any words of wisdom here would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks in advance,
Judy

[Kaem]

I work on sets of poems to make chapbooks to give to my friends and family, so I keep working on all of my poems until I've decided on a selection to use. I'll edit them even as I'm copying them into the document, but once I print it off and distribute copies to people, I consider the poems finished, just because it's a convenient excuse to never touch them again.

Some people never consider their poems finished, even ones that have appeared in legit publications. They keep editing them decades later.

It seems pretty unlikely that you could ever write a poem that you couldn't potentially find a way to improve later on, but the more work you put into a poem, the less likely you are to make really worthwhile changes to it, so your efforts become less productive than they would be if you directed them to new poems.

I guess the answer is that your poem will only be finished if you decide to quit working on it, and that should depend on how satisfied you are with it -- you'll probably never be able to please everyone, but as long as your poem is satisfying to some subset of your readers -- plus yourself -- then move on.

[Howard Miller]

Paul Valery: "A poem is never finished, just abandoned."

In his 60s, Yeats completely rewrote many of the poems of his 20s.

In my opinion, a poem, like life, is always a work in progress because it can always be made better. Ultimately, one just has to say at some point, "This poem is finished for now."


Howard

[Etain Homme]

Originally posted by LVJuicyFruit:
My question is then, at what point do I/should I consider this poem 'finished', so to speak?

Hi Judy:

Good poem, good thread, and good question. Sorry to be philosophical but the truth is that everytime you go back to a poem, you, as the writer & reader, have changed. Look at works you did even a year ago; when you read them do you see yourself as that same person? I have read,here and in many places, that a poem is a "snapshot" of life. The problem is that as poets we tend to treat each poem as an oil painting . . . every time we view it the light has changed a little bit. Thus it is done only when you think it's done.

I don't know it that helps at all. I hope that it does.

Keep up the wonderful work.

Etain

[LVJuicyFruit]

psycho*poet, Howard and Etain,

Thank you for the wonderful responses to my question. They are most helpful, but I have one more question, with regard to PFFA which relates to something in psycho*poet's response:

Originally posted by psycho*poet:
- you'll probably never be able to please everyone, but as long as your poem is satisfying to some subset of your readers -- plus yourself -- then move on.

If you feel your poem is both satisfying to yourself and 'some subset of your readers', is it appropriate to post a reply in the thread as sort of a final 'thank you' to all who commented/critiqued and ask the moderators to go ahead and close the thread?

Thanks again, in advance!
Judy

[This message has been edited by LVJuicyFruit (edited 07-24-2002).]

[Howard Miller]

Certainly.

[Jeff Townsend]

My question is then, at what point do I/should I consider this poem 'finished', so to speak?

Mike Murphy interviewed Irish poet Michael Longley and asked that same question. This is an excerpt that also includes the poet's response to the difference between prose and poetry:

MM: You've said, "If prose is a river, poetry is a fountain" and "The gap between good poetry and good prose is quite narrow." Would you elaborate briefly on poetry vis-á-vis prose?

ML: What good prose and good poetry have in common is rhythm, and beyond that I think that the form of a poem is like the nozzle through which water is forced to make a fountain. The result is free-flowing and at the same time shapely. Beyond that what makes a poem is something quite mysterious. The writing of a poem is akin to what I imagine a religious experience might be. Poetry is the way I make sense of the world. It's an exploration. When I'm writing a poem I don't know exactly what I'm saying. I'm actually writing it in order to find out what I'm saying. It's also a sensuous experience. I say the words aloud as I'm working with them. I roll them round in my mouth. When it's going well I feel like a blacksmith hammering molten iron, it's so sensuous. It's an erotic experience as well, and I never know where it's going to take me. I don't know what shape the poem is going to be when I finish. I don't decide anything in advance. It's the most exciting thing in the world for me. In terms of pleasure it's more enjoyable than eating or drinking, or sex for that matter. I simply live hoping that there'll be another poem.

MM: How do you know when the poem is finished?

ML: That's a mysterious thing too. It's intuitive. There's a sense of the poem having created its own critical gravity or whatever the term in physics is. How does a painter know not another brushstroke more? A lot of poems are spoilt because the poet doesn't know when to stop. For me, the strange thing is getting out three or four words or half a line, and sensing even at that moment that this poem is going to be a little fragment of four short lines, or a sonnet or six quatrains. In my bones I know it's finished because the shape the poem has formed to mold itself tells me. I might return afterwards but it would only be a very small tinkering, changing "and" to "but," or "a" to "the."


JT






[This message has been edited by Jeff Townsend (edited 07-24-2002).]

[prokopton]

Definitively, the point at which a thing is finished is reached when the objective is attained. Therefore you can only know when the task is finished if a concise objective pre-existed the effort.
The experience of writing is more often the result of inspiration and the writing is “finished” when the inspiration is gone. Satisfaction may occur if the outcome is aesthetically pleasing coincident with the cessation of inspiration.
Since I seldom set out to write “a poem” except as an exercise, (inspired by one of Clive2’s challenges perhaps, or Harry prodding me with a gibe,) more often I jot down a mellifluous phrase or intriguing image, thinking it belongs in a poem. I may then, or later, explore the possibilities of wrapping it in other appealing language or telling the rest of the story. In that case the poem is finished when I have achieved what I set out to do.
A subjective assessment of the completeness of a poem by a third party, a critic, say, is determined by certain technical and aesthetic criteria – easier done with a piece employing standard forms, less so with verse libre.
LV, the question you are asking seems to be: How do I know when the poem is the best it can be? – a much hoarier, and perhaps more interesting, question.
Etain, above, raises an interesting point about the poem’s "snapshot of creative consciousness" aspect. As philosophers from Wm. James on back to the pre-Socratics have pointed out: you can’t step twice into the same river. You may have written a poem in a fit of anger or in the rapture of new love. When you next view the poem, you are no longer the same person who wrote it, you too have changed. Thusly you may come to think that more, or less, needs to be said.
I think an argument can be made here against revision entirely, although only for those who have truly mastered the tools, maybe nonesuch have ever lived - even Blake revised Tyger.

[LVJuicyFruit]

Originally posted by prokopton:

Definitively, the point at which a thing is finished is reached when the objective is attained. Therefore you can only know when the task is finished if a concise objective pre-existed the effort.
The experience of writing is more often the result of inspiration and the writing is “finished” when the inspiration is gone. Satisfaction may occur if the outcome is aesthetically pleasing coincident with the cessation of inspiration.
Since I seldom set out to write “a poem” except as an exercise, (inspired by one of Clive2’s challenges perhaps, or Harry prodding me with a gibe,) more often I jot down a mellifluous phrase or intriguing image, thinking it belongs in a poem. I may then, or later, explore the possibilities of wrapping it in other appealing language or telling the rest of the story. In that case the poem is finished when I have achieved what I set out to do.
A subjective assessment of the completeness of a poem by a third party, a critic, say, is determined by certain technical and aesthetic criteria – easier done with a piece employing standard forms, less so with verse libre.
LV, the question you are asking seems to be: How do I know when the poem is the best it can be? – a much hoarier, and perhaps more interesting, question.

Actually prokopton, I think I am asking two different questions, one brought about by the other. As I mentioned previously, I was wondering what to 'do' with one of my poems, as far as PFFA is concerned. I had posted it in AC&C and was committed to making it 'the best it can be'. I knew I could receive immense help with my execution from those writers who have a better mastery of the 'tools' than me, as well as receive many benefits from various perspectives (ranging from 'novice' to 'expert'). All of this and more resulted from posting that poem here (PFFA). Since I felt I was close to attaining my personal goal with the piece, I began to wonder how to go about wrapping things up. That process raised the larger question of, 'When is a poem a finished product?'

Etain, above, raises an interesting point about the poem’s "snapshot of creative consciousness" aspect. As philosophers from Wm. James on back to the pre-Socratics have pointed out: you can’t step twice into the same river. You may have written a poem in a fit of anger or in the rapture of new love. When you next view the poem, you are no longer the same person who wrote it, you too have changed. Thusly you may come to think that more, or less, needs to be said.
I think an argument can be made here against revision entirely, although only for those who have truly mastered the tools, maybe nonesuch have ever lived - even Blake revised Tyger.

You made several good points to consider, but an especially interesting one in that an argument can be made against revision entirely. I would offer this. Revision is a learning process for the novice writer who is willing to put the time and effort into the process. But, the question remains, are there truly any experts/masters within the realm of the arts, or is that too a matter of perspective?

Great stuff to think about!
Judy

[Rik Roots]

When I'm writing a poem I don't know exactly what I'm saying. I'm actually writing it in order to find out what I'm saying. It's also a sensuous experience. I say the words aloud as I'm working with them. I roll them round in my mouth. When it's going well I feel like a blacksmith hammering molten iron, it's so sensuous. It's an erotic experience as well, and I never know where it's going to take me. I don't know what shape the poem is going to be when I finish. I don't decide anything in advance.

Oh. My. God.

Rik, knee deep.

[Dunc]

Revision is a process for all and sundry - well, maybe not Mozart, but Beethoven anyway. Seamus and Ted did their share of crossing out too, though before they published. By and large, cosí fan tutti.

Meanwhile, down here on the ground, I'm getting better at knowing when something's wrong with what I'm trying to do. (What? Well, one's better than none, surely!) The problem is the same as ever, though - to get some distance between me-as-reviser and me-as-emotionally-involved-first-writer. My only recipe for that is to stick the poem back in the drawer for several months. But a few of my poems, the ones I have the most ambition for, will in all likelihood never be finished - I'll never be really happy with them as a whole. Regards / Dunc

[Howard Miller]

Auden was once asked if he planned out a poem in advance. His answer was, "How do I know what I think until I see what I've said?"

And for anyone who actually believes that, I have this bridge in Brooklyn . . . .


Howard