HOW TO WRITE AN EXTRACTION POEM
Step 1
Select a piece of writing as your source. It might be an article, a short story, or a long poem. Photocopy the entire piece, or a section of it. Be sure to number the copied pages. This will become crucial later in the process.
Step 2
Have within easy reach several pencils, a sharpener, and a good eraser.
Step 3
Begin circling words found on the copied pages, allowing your own phrases, and even sentences, to construct themselves from the extracted words. Don’t be concerned if this does not happen right away, or when there are shifts away from any assumed direction. The one inescapable rule is this: only words in the source piece may be used, IN THE ORIGINAL ORDER THEY APPEAR. This element embodies the challenge of the form.
Step 4
You will be composing your own poem as you continue, although you might not yet know what it’s about. When it starts taking shape, the extraction process will become more conscious. It’s fine to extract generalized phrases from the source, just keep checking that you aren’t appropriating anything considered idiosyncratic to the author or the piece.
Step 5
Type out the extracted words. I usually to do this in phrase or sentence form. You will most likely choose to go back to the source piece, circling new words and short phrases, and erasing the circles around others. Expect to get a bit dizzy in the effort to find words you can use IN THE ORIGINAL ORDER THEY APPEAR. There will be a lot of circling and uncircling. Keep checking the source; mistakes will be made. Remedying them often leads to unexpected treasures. The copies will get smudged and messy. Possibly tear-stained.
Step 6
Making sure to keep the words IN THE ORIGINAL ORDER THEY APPEAR, set line and stanza breaks or complete in the form of a prose poem. Do not be daunted by a desire to revise or expand. Doing so provides the opportunity to venture into even deeper unexplored terrain.
AN EXTRACTION POEM:
On Edge
Hung hopes, soon settled.
Brains out on the lawn.
Matter flew open, threw up
the moon. On the porch,
dry leaves—wild when they
mount the sky. I was turning
around, bound from head to
foot, clothes flung on. Drawn
like a bow, chin held tight.
The smoke encircled in spite.
A twist of dread spoke—not
a word, but a finger to all.
Extraction Poem from
“A Visit from St. Nicholas,” by Clement Clarke Moore
by Maureen Cosgrove