Ariana Benson
This poem sprung from the same well as a suite of poems that appear in Black Pastoral, all with the same title—love poems that capture instances of Black intimacy across many fields and so much time. I felt frustration with this poem, unable to appreciate it for what it was, because it wasn’t what I wanted to be writing. I couldn’t leave the field (of mind) I’d entered to write the poems in the collection. So, I had no choice but to write until the ink of Black Pastoral’s pen ran dry, and to accept that this is part of the work and life cycle of the project. Our obsessions decide when they’re done with us, not the other way around.
There are a few moves in this draft that I make almost every time I approach the page. I use parentheses liberally when scratching out the first version—usually, they encircle a word that doesn’t yet strike the right note, sonically, affectively, or otherwise. I keep the first word that came to me, and try to keep my pen going, fearful of losing the momentum that is key to my getting anything on the page at all. Then, in the revision stage, “huddle” becomes “fever” because of the echoic long “e” with the shortly following “fieldmouse”; by the same token, I might realize a “curled” fits well, and drop the parentheses altogether.
Drafting by hand allows me to get the shape of an idea on the page, but revision is where I attune the words to an intangible flow and hum. The one “craft” element that I draft with attention to is the line break—if I see a place where enjambing a line may create a dual (and thus deepened) meaning, I’ll throw a quick slash into what would otherwise be a prose sentence. I also open and close the poem with “heart lines” that set up the concept of the poem, and also offer an emotional entryway. These come to me all on their own, and most of them live in my iPhone notes until I’m ready to make from their modest linguistic sketch, a fully textured poem.
< draft >
< draft >
Love Poem in the Black Field
Jamestown, Virginia, 1622
I have been looking for beautiful things / to hold alongside you in my mind:
The shimmer / of horseflies’ wings as they (huddle) over a dead fieldmouse,
The (rare) skin / of a Gala of which no worm has made meal or home.
These new (things called) honeybees, all buoyant with excitement at being
Let off the ship.
Found another dead one yesterday—whole, stinger and all, (curled) up
Under a tobacco leaf. I won’t step on them. Not because I’m scared
Of the sting. Because they ain’t so different than us—jarred in darkness,
Drug cross that (big pond), made to work under a new sun
So another man’s spit can taste sweet—that I can call burying
Them with my feet anything like mercy. We like the bees:
Buzzing, humming, drowning
Out everything but our own noise. I talk to you out here
Because I’ve seen what a monster all that silence makes of man. For you,
I make new my eyes. I speak to keep sugar on my lips.
Look at the flowers, they say, at the miracles of God. But if I don’t
Keep rose, cherry blossom, lily under my tongue, all I can do is think
About how pink is really just a (shade/kind) of red. In a flower,
A bee chooses his bride, as I choose you—still thirsting for a sip
of something thicker than water, thinner than blood.
< final version >
Love Poem in the Black Field
Jamestown, Virginia, 1622
I look for beautiful things to plant
Alongside you in my mind: the shimmer
Of horseflies’ wings as they fever
Over a rotting fieldmouse, the mist
settled over the waiting leaves.
These new things called honeybees,
All buoyant with excitement at being
Let off the ship. Found another dead one
Yesterday—whole, stinger and all, curled up
Under a tobacco leaf. I won’t step on it.
Not because I’m scared of the sting. Because they ain’t
So different than us—jarred in darkness,
Drug cross all that blue, made to labor
Under a vengeful sun so some man’s tongue taste
sweet—that I can call burying them underfoot
Anything like mercy. We like the bees:
Ruined, and so buzzing, humming, drowning
Out everything but our own noise.
I’ve seen the beast all that silence
Makes of man. For you, I speak,
Keep sugar on my lips. I open anew
My eyes. Look at the flowers, they say,
The miracles of God. and it’s all I can do
Not to think about how pink is no more
Than a thinner kind of red. In a flower, the bee takes
A kind of bride, as I choose you—thirsting
For a sip of something fuller than nectar,
lighter than blood.