LAST CHRISTMAS (poem) and the revision process.

I encourage all writers, no matter what genre of writing they do, to be involved in a workshop where people who aren't you can look at your work through their eyes and tell you what's lacking. What works, what doesn't, what they liked, what they didn't. As a result of a workshop, I've decided to republish a revised version of this poem. Before the revised version is the text from the original poem (since Hub Pages won't let me publish the new one and since I want to make sure this one gets displayed as new, I have actually removed the other one from this site. Thanks for all the comments and feedback!) to the original in this HUB so you can compare. I hope you like my revisions!

This poem originally came from a free write in poetry class where I was asked to describe my mother’s kitchen. It began as just a list of words and images that meant something but had no cohesiveness or sense of order. It eventually grew into a list poem that covered the last Christmas I remember with my parents being together. The first typed draft was this:

Mother in the kitchen in a green apron,

tongue licking her upper lip in concentration.

Tears filled her eyes as she gazed

out of our huge kitchen windows through the leafless pear tree that grew through our deck

to snowcapped Mt Hood,

stuffing a turkey.

Grandma and sister making cookies in the kitchen:

cookie cutter Jesus, cookie cutter reindeer, cookie cutter gingerbread men:

Frosted. Baked.

Soft. Delicious.

Apple cider with cinnamon sticks, piles of mashed yams, green bean casserole,

sparkling wine, sparkling cider,

sweet ham, olives acting

as gloves, celery filled with cheese whiz, beets, skinless mashed potatoes, thick

brown gravy, dad and grandpa speaking in hushed tones,

Charlie Brown sharing the true meaning of Christmas,

The droning of football,

the finest China emblazoned in gold with engraved lilies,

matching table settings, green, red, silver,

white cloth napkins held in place by dark mahogany rings,

sweaters with reindeer, sweaters with snowflakes,

tiny flashing lights

illuminating ceramic Jesus lying on

angel hair, a Noble Fir drenched

in candy canes and garish metal balls and tiny flashing lights

draped over the objects of our greed wrapped in shiny snowmen and Santa clauses and gold

ribbons forming

a half moon across the floor,

the dog barking, Andy Williams singing,

dad frowning,

mom with her hand up a turkey:

the Christmas before my parents split up.

If you like this poem...

A revised version of it appears in my ebook, Digging to China, available both on Kindle and as a PDF. It will soon be available as a limited edition chap book. To request a PDF or chap book,click here.

While I enjoyed the first draft, it was still just a draft. There was a lot of unneeded detail, some awkward line breaks and some unclear sentences. I turned it in for workshop and published it on my Hub and got some valuable feedback. Much of that feedback revolved around the need for some specific details and greater emotion. This feedback also suggested that some of the lines were confusing and some of the line breaks were poorly placed. I reworked the poem, being more deliberate about my details and tried to inject more feeling and more meaning behind the items listed. Also, many did not like the phrase “Objects of our greed” in the first draft. After rereading the poem, I agreed. I wasn’t trying to cast judgment on the situation or the people involved, I was just trying to share a story. “Greed” was a word that expressed judgment. I changed it for a gentler phrase that still got my point across. This is the second draft:

Wearing her green apron, mother

stands in the kitchen with her hand

up a turkey, gazing

with moist eyes through our huge windows

through the leafless pear tree

to snowcapped Mt. Hood.

Grandma and my sister making cookies in the kitchen:

cookie cutter Jesus, reindeer, ginger bread men,

frosted. Baked.

Soft. Delicious.

Apple cider with cinnamon sticks, piles of mashed yams, green bean casserole,

sparkling wine, sweet ham

olives acting

as gloves, cheese whiz and celery, skinless mashed

potatoes, thick

brown gravy, dad and grandpa speaking in hushed tones,

Charlie Brown sharing the true meaning of Christmas,

distracted algebra and hot cocoa,

the finest China emblazoned with gold and engraved lilies,

matching table settings, green, red, silver,

white cloth napkins held between

dark mahogany rings,

sweaters with reindeer,

tiny flashing lights illuminating ceramic Jesus lying on

angel hair, a Noble Fir drenched

in candy canes and garish metal balls and tiny flashing lights

draped over objects of affection wrapped with shiny snow men and Santa Claus’ and gold ribbons

forming a half moon across the floor,

the dog barking, Andy Williams singing,

dad looking sad,

mom with her hand up a turkey:

the Christmas before my parents split up.

my definition:

re: again

vision: see

synonyms: friend

Merriam-Webster

noun 
revisions, plural

1.The action of revision

2. A revised edition or form of something

Web definitions

*the act of revising or altering (involving reconsideration and modification); "it would require a drastic revision of his opinion"

*the act of rewriting something

*rewrite: something that has been written again; "the rewrite was much better"

*altered or revised by rephrasing or by adding or deleting material; "the amended bill passed easily"

*Revision is the stage in the writing process where the author reviews, alters, and amends her or his message, according to what has been written in the draft. Revision follows drafting and precedes editing.

The second draft was better in some ways but not as good in others. It had more specific detail, but too much detail. While I tried to inject MORE emotion, I ended up actually distancing myself even more from the poem and the feelings behind it. It was also suggested during workshop that I use specific references to my age at this time, but I rejected this advice as I didn’t think it was necessary for the poem to be felt and understood. I set out on my third draft to add more feeling and fewer yet more specific details. Third draft (and latest) turned out like this:

Last Christmas (Third revision)

Wearing her green apron, mother

stands in the kitchen with her hand

up a turkey, gazing

with moist eyes through our huge windows

through the leafless pear tree

to snowcapped Mt. Hood.

Grandma and sister making cookies in the kitchen:

cookie cutter Jesus, reindeer, ginger bread men:

Frosted. Baked.

Soft. Delicious.

Apple cider with cinnamon sticks, mashed yams piled, green bean casserole,

sparkling wine,

sweet ham, olives acting

as gloves, celery filled with cheese whiz, beets, skinless mashed potatoes, thick

brown gravy, dad and grandpa speaking in conspiratorial tones,

Charlie Brown sharing the “true meaning of Christmas”,

The droning of football,

the finest China

emblazoned in gold

with engraved lilies,

matching table settings, green, red, silver,

white cloth napkins held between

dark mahogany rings,

sweaters with reindeer prancing through snowflakes,

tiny flashing lights

illuminating ceramic Jesus lying

on angel hair, a Noble Fir drenched

in candy canes and garish metal balls and tiny flashing lights

draped over objects of affection wrapped with shiny snow men and Santa Claus and gold ribbons

forming a half moon across the floor,

the dog barking, Andy Williams singing,

dad looking sad,

mom with her hand up a turkey:

the Christmas before my parents split up.

This third draft is very close to what I’m trying to say. I won’t say it’s my last draft—I’m always revising and revisiting my works— but I don’t imaging I’ll change a ton. I think the rhythm is great, I’ve added some internal rhyme, more varied line breaks and very specific details. Certainly, some will say that the poem is still distant emotionally but that’s sort of the point. I’m trying to show my (the narrator’s) sense of detachment at the situation, a weird kind of innocence/ignorance. I certainly hope my emotion comes through in this draft and, if it doesn’t, I’m always open to more advice on how to make my feelings come out.

Regardless, I am pleased with this draft and the revision process. The workshops were very helpful in pointing things out to me that I as a writer missed or was unclear on. I’m amazed at how a simple list was able to transform into a poem that I am quite proud of and that helped me sort through some of the feelings I had following my parents’ divorce.

May this not be your last Christmas.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah!

all rights reserved. All Three versions copyright Justin W. Price, October 2011

Thanks for Reading.

PDXKaraokeGuy, also known as Justin W. Price, is the managing editor at eFiction horror. Husband to Andrea, father to two dogs. writer.poet.baseball fan. tattooed. He is am amateur theologian with a rabid sweet tooth. He resides in a suburb of Portland, Oregon.He has a poetry book available for Amazon Kindle, and also maintains a blog, FirstBlog. His work has been featured in the Crisis Chronicles, efiction Magazine, The Hellroaring Review, the Bellwether Review, eFiction Humor, and the Rusty Nail. Please visit his profile page for more information. Thanks!