Taylor Hamann Los on “AlaskaN Oysters”

Over the past year or so, my writing has become rather seasonal: in winter I tend to write winter poems, in summer I write summer poems, and in spring and fall I write less but spend time reading and thinking about new poems. The first draft of “Alaskan Oysters” began in January 2021, when I wrote a slightly different version of the poem’s first line. I was thinking about—and wondering about—an oyster’s sharp shell and how that may be the only defense it has against human hands. There was snow outside my window, and I felt immersed in the poem’s world of cold, salt, and sea. 

Nature almost always informs my work in some way, but I had never written about oysters before. I did a lot of research on Alaskan oyster farming. One of the interesting things I learned is that oysters grow well in Alaska’s waters but cannot reproduce due to the cold and must be imported as juveniles. For me, one of the most engaging parts of the writing process is research. I want to make sure what I present in my work is accurate, and I always learn something new along the way. I also often discover details that can enrich a poem in unexpected ways. Finding surprise within my own work is both exciting and rewarding.

However, during the editing process, this particular poem stalled. I just couldn’t seem to get the ending right. Something about it wasn’t playing nicely with the rest of the poem. At the same time, I was also considering writing another poem, one based on a dream I had. My husband and I do not have children yet, but in this dream, we had a daughter, a daughter whose face only I couldn’t see. It was unsettling, and I woke wondering why I, the person who would have given birth to this daughter, could not see her. “Alaskan Oysters” did not come together until I realized that the oysters and dream daughter belonged in the same poem. She was like these oysters: they were all beings whose lives were completely determined by someone else. It just took me a while to see it.

Currently, I do almost all my first drafting in one large document, combined with freewriting and my own commentary. When the document reaches around a hundred pages, I start a new one. Once a poem’s first draft reaches completion, I copy it and give it its own space. These drafting documents are basically long poetry diaries, where I can see how my poems—and my thoughts toward them—develop over time. It also means my drafts and other snippets of thought are in close proximity. Had these two poem fragments not been in the same space, I may not have brought them together. Maybe I would still have arrived there eventually, maybe not. That moment of finally figuring out exactly what a struggling poem needs is exciting.

While digging back into this poem about ten months after I wrote its first line, I find myself surprised by it yet again. Even though I know how it took shape, I still wonder exactly where it came from and why. As I move through the seasons again, I know poetry will continue to surprise me, and for that I am grateful. Poetry, too, is a wild thing—one that can push or pull just like the tide.