Writing is rewriting

Yesterday I attended a demonstration, Hands around Parliament-stop arming Israel. It encouraged me to look at a journal entry from early spring, the day after attending a vigil for the Gaza victims and Aaron Bushnell.

Writing is rewriting, particularly for poetry. Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass in 1855, and spent most of his professional life writing, rewriting, and expanding Leaves of Grass this collection until his death in 1892. However, the first edition was a book of twelve poems, and the last was a collection of over 400. I worked on this poem pulled from my journal. It needs more drafts, but as I write it out, I develop my thoughts. What I want to say, how I felt, and how I feel.

Breath of Spring *Draft Three)

Yesterday was the 29th February, a leap year, we stood in Trafalgar Square with placards and flags, holding candles, chanting, listening, praying, remembering. 
Today is the first day of March, the breath of spring in the pink blossom of trees and yellow shots of daffodils. 
Dawn was another promise, sunshine after the rain of yesterday. Last night I removed candlewax from my coat, my kaffeya, my umbrella. 
Today, I walk to work, boots of wet pavements, greet a neighbour, walk past a pushchair with a baby in a pink coat, fed, warm, loved.  

Breath of Spring (Draft Four)

Today is the first of March, the breath of spring 
is on the tissue blossom of trees and yellow shots 
of daffodils. Dawn came with a promise, 
sunshine after the rain of yesterday. I remove 
candlewax from my coat. Boots on wet pavements 
for my walk to work, past a baby in a pushchair, 
a tiny pink bud warm, fed, loved. Thousands 
of miles away, I cannot reach you sweet child. 
It is all wrong. Take back this promise, 
we do not deserve it. Return this dawn, 
we cannot change this, we 
only have our words, our voices. 
We can only witness.

S. Abdallah ©