I’ve been working on the poem below for 11 months now, and the process has made me think about the purpose(s) of revision, the why of why artists and writers do it. In the case of this poem, I’m revising for entirely personal reasons. My revisions have little to do with creating a stand-out poem that strangers will read and appreciate; I want to tell a particular story about someone I love in a way that might demonstrate, to that person, compassion and some understanding of his feelings. I believe this is a valid purpose for making art, even if it is subjectively personal–ie, not “universal,” not groundbreaking, not timeless.

Certainly, the classic lyric poem, and many narrative lyrical poems, often are addressed to a particular someone. It seems to me that the classic lyrical poem is less based in context, however, and can therefore be read, aesthetically, as more universal. The narrative poem by nature relates its story in a time or place, using contextual descriptions that can become obscure in different eras or locations.

Such is the poem below; it may benefit from some backstory, which I will supply afterward. But read the poem first and maybe let me know if I’m correct. Maybe it will “work” for other readers, maybe not; but it is something I have been wanting to write for my son for awhile now. And he “gets it,” so my purpose has been achieved. 🙂

~

In the Warship’s Belly

How you hated those five days in harbor,
amid steel and cable, fearful each minute but
constrained from showing it.

You prefer to see shoreline and sky.
Discomfort pervaded every hour you spent
on board, walking through hazards,

noting construction, rewiring, repairs;
how you hated the low-ceilinged passages 
through which you half-crawled,

wearing neoprene-soled boots and a hard
hat, as anxiety, hyper-alert, worked its 
wormy way through your body.

There were power outages that canceled
light completely for unexpected
seconds deep below decks,

then generators’ earthquake roars would
rumble and shake so every wall threatened,
sparks lit up and light returned—

your breath rapid and near wheezing,
tremulous, you inhaled the stale, acrid
diesel-fumed air pushed by industrial fans

through that beast’s belly, that machine 
of men’s work, war’s work. Built to threaten 
and combat, it felt nothing like a boat, nothing

like the small wooden dinghy of your heart 
that sailed the cove, with your little sister,
one summer years ago. 
~

Context: When my son was employed doing navigational software de-bugging for a US Navy contractor, the job required a week on board a military ship that was being retrofitted and overhauled in drydock. The assignment took place during covid. He hated almost every minute of the experience and left the job soon after the on-board stint. Due to non-disclosure agreements and national security stuff, he couldn’t really tell us much about why he was so miserable; but he described the circumstances and gave us some idea of how anxiety-producing the tasks were, given the environment and his temperament (which does lean toward the anxious). He was a grown man and quite responsible for himself, so this poem is really about my feelings for him. When those we love are going through unpleasant things, we feel for them.

And here is the dinghy, though it is technically a pram–poetic license.