A Craft Essay by Heidi Seaborn
Writing to the End: Artistic Choices in Apocalyptic Times
Two a.m. on November 6, 2024. My love is propped with pillows, his phone aglow with news. Have I slept at all? Even sleep feels uncertain. I pick up my phone and join his doom scroll as we mutter to each other. When he finally sets the cacophonous world aside and rolls off to sleep, I rise with work to do.
Or the distraction of work. The final draft of my manuscript is overdue to my editor. I’ve been holding out, uncertain (there, that word again) of how the poetry collection should end. It begins as the ashes of 2019 invite a roaring ‘20s New Year’s Eve party that gives way to a pandemic, an insurrection, war after war, the possibility of tyranny and the mounting climate crisis. I had written the messy start of this decade in poetry, and in the writing had confronted history’s expanse and the chaos of our current times. But I’d also been comforted by love’s small affections, faith, and hope. It was in this optimistic spirit that I originally ended with a poem titled “Perhaps This is a Prayer.”
Throughout the fall of 2024, I labored on the final draft of tic tic tic, while the election, and, it seemed, the country teetered on the edge. And while I vacillated on how the collection should end. Buoyed by the surge of enthusiasm for a new Democratic ticket, I’d written a fresh final poem in late September. I called it “Take Five” in homage to Dave Brubeck’s famous tempo-breaking jazz piece. The poem captured both the anxiety and the hope I was feeling.
Yet even as I dropped in “Take Five” to close the final manuscript draft, I began another poem. This one darker, anticipating a different outcome. For who knew? Not the polls or the pundits. And not this poet. So, I wrote into the darkness, imagining the worst. A poem of two stanzas, ten lines each. I called it “Da Capo” for the musical notation that instructs the musician to return to the beginning. The final lines mirrored the opening lines of the first poem in the collection. I shared it with a workshop, tidied it up a bit, and then I set it aside and waited.
Until four a.m. on November 6th when I pull on my robe and creep quietly downstairs to my computer. I rapidly cut and paste “Da Capo” into the final draft, update the table of contents and notes, then close the file before I can think. But before daylight comes to our northern landscape, I return to thinking about the ending. Knowing that it’s really a smokescreen for not thinking about the other endings (human rights, democracy, the world…).
I began tic tic tic as a lyrical take on the past half-decade, its turmoil pushing me to wrestle with questions of time and faith. Now, as the future promises even more chaos and danger, I mull over how the collection closes. How important is it to acknowledge what’s happened in the non-fictional world? To end with “Da Capo” would feel discordant with the narrative arc of the collection, and a fatalistic succumbing to darkness. But then again, can I really close my book with a moment of giddy sensuality and joy? Wouldn’t that be potentially tone-deaf and out of step with reality? Mulling the two poems on my screen, I think of another option: to drop both poems and return to the original final poem—”Perhaps It’s a Prayer”—a spiritual meditation. But my reasons persist for veering from ending with a poem of prayer. And as I think about it, on her knees in devotion is not where I want the speaker to be—not now.
I let these questions percolate as I make and drink a third cup of coffee. Dawn this time of year in the Pacific Northwest is still hours away. And I realize that I don’t want daylight to arrive yet. I wish to remain in the dark a bit longer. As if morning will force me to face the ruthless mirror, acknowledge the monster we’ve unleashed. So, I distract with indecision, let it elbow out my larger angst.
When day finally arrives, I’m no closer to a decision, and worse, I’m falling down the black hole of news. My neighbor texts: Wanna walk? Yes, yes, yes. I need to get away. She meets me ten minutes later at my front gate. The day is gloomy grey. We’re both bundled up. I suggest we head up the hill–it’s a mile nearly straight up. I want to get my heart going. I want to make sure I still have a heart. My breathing deepens, slowing my side of the conversation. My neighbor is a runner, she is unfazed and ranting about the election. As we turn to head back down, my breathing slows enough for me to pick up my side of the conversation. Which I change to my burning question–how to end my collection? She is not a poet. She’s retired from the military. But we both need this distraction. I explain the options: A) a poem that ends in hope and joy. B) a poem that ends in the fear of the moment. Or C) a poem that is a prayer. Then I ask her to weigh in on this artistic dilemma. But it’s more than that, and my neighbor senses it too–the outer turmoil but also our inner turmoil. What do we need to feel right now? What is it that is going to keep us pressing forward? She doesn’t hesitate as I have for the past several hours. Despite her foul mood, she responds, You must end on hope. That’s what we need.
Still my indecisiveness lingers for a few more days, as my mood continues to darken. I can’t get myself to the place I was when I wrote “Take Five.” Nor can I ignore my neighbor’s instruction–the urgency of it. I cut “Da Capo” inserting “Take Five.” But I add a line to the poem as an embellishing nod to reality.
Then I share “Take Five” in a workshop of poets who hadn’t read the poem in any version. While the poem was successful, everyone had the same response–the new line didn’t work. It felt discordant with the rest of the poem. As if a black storm cloud had arrived out of nowhere blotting the sun. They too wanted a hopeful, jubilant poem unblemished by fear or worry.
Just the feedback I need to hear. I cut the line. I’m done. The book is done. It ends in joy even as the world speeds toward a different, darker ending. A faith, perhaps, that the accumulations of small gestures toward love and hope will return the light.
Read “Take Five” by Heidi Seaborn on One Art.
