Poem: The Oyster

Poems are a frequent product of my attempts to write anything else.

In the spring, I had the great opportunity to hear poet Marie Howe speak and read when she visited Rutgers University. She said that it usually took her several years to complete one book of poetry. I was astonished, as like most novices, I think every word is golden in a first draft. But as I continue to write I am coming to understand her more and more.

This poem has been through probably eight drafts. I was hung up on the word "bauble" for a while, and have recently excised it satisfactorily. It probably still needs many more drafts, as most of the time when I make a change, I know it makes the poem better, but I don't always know why. And actually, between writing this sentence and the previous sentence, I wrote two more drafts, and I am still experiencing some ambivalence regarding the third stanza and the final line. But nonetheless, here it is.


The Oyster

I once dreamed of pearls.

Until I saw them carving my headstone in chalk.


Jewel-painted,

I am grown, nurtured---cultivated.

I am

loved?


Then,

they shatter me.

Shovel-handed, they scrape, scoop, tear---

pittances from the flesh.

The husk, they throw away:

shards of shell, to grind to dust


or sometimes,

to be picked up by some slow, quiet girl

who will say

‘These were pretty once.’

and lay the pieces together.


But some will be missing.