Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
To the office, where all the morning. At noon home to dinner, and in the afternoon to my office again, where very busy all the afternoon and particularly about fitting of Mr. Yeabsly’s accounts for the view of the Lords Commissioners for Tangier. At night home to supper and to bed.
off on and off again
an outfit for view at night
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 26 April 1666.
"...each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name"
~ G. M. Hopkins, "As Kingfishers Catch Fire"
You, my dead and dying, follow me from city
to city— you take up very little space
but hoist your luggage in envelopes of water
that leak from time to time. You hover
near my shoulder like a fever, like you did
when I was a girl, making sure I finish
every morsel on my plate. In wistful tones
you tell stories about the neighbors'
children: how last summer the eldest took
her parents on a cruise down the Rhine,
how the son surprised his mother with a new
car in the driveway, engine running,
its hood adorned with a giant bow. You hide
my pillbox behind the cookie tin and make
me want to drink all the ice water in the fridge,
looking for a small slice of moon. I promise
I will sweep the dust out from under the furniture
and sort through boxes of paper marked
Important; but first I need a nap. A faint
clicking like castanets means I've
disappointed you again. I'm sorry I pawned
the silver candlesticks and ruby pendant.
The kitchen cupboards are filled with mugs
from different restaurants and my bankbook
with smaller and smaller numbers. You're always
telling me my life can still be good, better
than what I left behind. After all these years
you stroke my hair and ask me to pick out
the ghost-grey from your heads: you'll give
me five centavos for each one pulled out
at the root so I can be your sad girl forever
but please— leave my daughters alone.
Up, and to White Hall to the Duke as usual, and did our business there. So I away to Westminster (Balty with me, whom I had presented to Sir W. Coventry) and there told Mrs. Michell of her kinswoman’s running away, which troubled her. So home, and there find another little girle come from my wife’s mother, likely to do well. After dinner I to the office, where Mr. Prin come to meet about the Chest business; and till company come, did discourse with me a good while alone in the garden about the laws of England, telling me the many faults in them; and among others, their obscurity through multitude of long statutes, which he is about to abstract out of all of a sort; and as he lives, and Parliaments come, get them put into laws, and the other statutes repealed, and then it will be a short work to know the law, which appears a very noble good thing. By and by Sir W. Batten and Sir W. Rider met with us, and we did something to purpose about the Chest, and hope we shall go on to do so. They up, I to present Balty to Sir W. Pen, who at my entreaty did write a most obliging letter to Harman to use him civilly, but the dissembling of the rogue is such, that it do not oblige me at all.
So abroad to my ruler’s of my books, having, God forgive me! a mind to see Nan there, which I did, and so back again, and then out again to see Mrs. Bettons, who were looking out of the window as I come through Fenchurch Streete. So that indeed I am not, as I ought to be, able to command myself in the pleasures of my eye.
So home, and with my wife and Mercer spent our evening upon our new leads by our bedchamber singing, while Mrs. Mary Batelier looked out of the window to us, and we talked together, and at last bid good night. However, my wife and I staid there talking of several things with great pleasure till eleven o’clock at night, and it is a convenience I would not want for any thing in the world, it being, methinks, better than almost any roome in my house. So having, supped upon the leads, to bed.
The plague, blessed be God! is decreased sixteen this week.
tell me the many faults
and obscurity of my books
I am sure of my eye
a window is a convenience
I would not want
the world being better than any room
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 25 April 1666.
Women from the farms separate
the newly sprung from earth
and gather seeds from fruits
of their early harvest. Their fore-
bears stacked terraces by hand upon
the mountainsides, split and coaxed
stalks of bamboo to move water
from upland springs to where
the soil could not otherwise
be fed, except for rain. Their hands
are moss and stone, vine and resin
on rows of carved wooden gods
resting under each granary: they
guard each grain and frighten voles
that roam the fields after dark, that hide
from owls and kestrels sweeping the sky
of foggy webs. The women save the blood
from every slaughter and sacrifice,
then twist it into smoky necklaces.
The bees make homes near citrus
groves and pilfer another kind
of gold into each cell. No snow
falls here though it is north and
high. But sometimes frost burns all
the tender green; then we are helpless.
Up, and presently am told that the girle that came yesterday hath packed up her things to be gone home again to Enfield, whence she come, which I was glad of, that we might be at first rid of her altogether rather than be liable to her going away hereafter. The reason was that London do not agree with her. So I did give her something, and away she went.
By and by comes Mr. Bland to me, the first time since his coming from Tangier, and tells me, in short, how all things are out of order there, and like to be; and the place never likely to come to anything while the soldiers govern all, and do not encourage trade. He gone I to the office, where all the morning, and so to dinner, and there in the afternoon very busy all day till late, and so home to supper and to bed.
old field
the land is tangier and out
of order there
a place never likely to thin
all gone off
and up
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 24 April 1666.
"My heart in hiding..."
~ Gerard Manley Hopkins, "The Windhover"
The fruit isn't yet visible
in the soil, though its rind
and oils have coupled in the same
house. A firefly flickers
in the bush, and you think of a long,
trailing list of everyone you ever
knew that you will never see again. Shut
the windows against night and pretend
the wind won't find you. Inside the throat
of the violin a road uncurls. At its end
are cypress trees, trumpet flowers pulling
at vines amid the rocks; lights
shining like love in the hills. You draw
the shade across the moon's face---
it is so radiant and you are still
afraid of being so completely
seen; of giving in to happiness
only to have it taken away.
Being mighty weary last night, lay long this morning, then up and to the office, where Sir W. Batten, Lord Bruncker and I met, and toward noon took coach and to White Hall, where I had the opportunity to take leave of the Prince, and again of the Duke of Albemarle; and saw them kiss the King’s hands and the Duke’s; and much content, indeed, there seems to be in all people at their going to sea, and [they] promise themselves much good from them. This morning the House of Parliament do meet, only to adjourne again till winter. The plague, I hear, encreases in the towne much, and exceedingly in the country everywhere.
Thence walked to Westminster Hall, and after a little stay, there being nothing now left to keep me there, Betty Howlett being gone, I took coach and away home, in my way asking in two or three places the worth of pearles, I being now come to the time that I have long ago promised my wife a necklace.
Dined at home and took Balty with me to Hales’s to show him his sister’s picture, and thence to Westminster, and there I to the Swan and drank, and so back again alone to Hales’s and there met my wife and Mercer, Mrs. Pierce being sitting, and two or three idle people of her acquaintance more standing by. Her picture do come on well. So staid until she had done and then set her down at home, and my wife and I and the girle by coach to Islington, and there eat and drank in the coach and so home, and there find a girle sent at my desire by Mrs. Michell of Westminster Hall, to be my girle under the cooke-mayde, Susan. But I am a little dissatisfied that the girle, though young, is taller and bigger than Su, and will not, I fear, be under her command, which will trouble me, and the more because she is recommended by a friend that I would not have any unkindness with, but my wife do like very well of her.
So to my accounts and journall at my chamber, there being bonfires in the streete, for being St. George’s day, and the King’s Coronation, and the day of the Prince and Duke’s going to sea. So having done my business, to bed.
last night the white
kiss of winter
an owl in two or three places
two or three idle people
and you bigger than fear
like a bonfire in the street
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 23 April 1666.
Monday of unsayables. Of the misheard & the poorly
translated. Of saying milk & being given meal.
Of people encased in moving metal capsules vibrating
to music that leaks out their windows & hisses through
tires before the swerve. Monday of unknowables. Of terra-
cotta pots that crack in the yard from the heat, &
the man cutting grass mopping his forehead, apologizing,
saying he will replace them if you want. Monday of trees
whose arms have all been amputated, a deep V in the same
places to let the wires delivering electric current
pass unobstructed for miles. Two men on the bridge throw
a fishing line into the water and tent their fingers,
waiting. Wading birds shape their legs into bent
question marks & try to hold still. Monday of unsayables,
of the uncertain heart trawling the sludge for things
the mouth has always wanted to say but couldn't. Like pull
on this thread & see what little bit remains on the spool.
Like touch the sutured-up part to let out some of the pounding.
Like throw me back into the water with all the hundred other
bodies flickering, when you are done with the thrill
of catching & counting & adding another notch on the board.
under a lethal spell, a king
wracked by fevers, a girl
who sleeps all day, unreachable
in her tower. Nothing can grow,
or everything keeps the same
way forever--- wheat always
just about to ripen, calving
animals caught in the throes
of pushing something new
at last into the world.
Reversal is what one
seeks to enact: all sleepers
awakening, the rivers sweet
and clear again; every stone
on the hillside just an ordinary
stone-- not someone whose heart
was so hardened on this threshing
floor called life, not even art-
less birdsong could move it.
A personal selection of posts from the Poetry Blogging Network and beyond. Although I tend to quote my favorite bits, please do click through and read the whole posts.
To paraphrase Ecclesiastes: Of making many blog posts about making books, there is (thankfully) no end. Also this week, as Na/GloPoWriMo winds down, posts about the making of many poems. Plus thoughts about productivity in general, questions about dream presses and whether there’s a distinctly American way of writing poetry, and several advanced cases of the walking blues.
What I learned from my understanding of the medieval Books of Hours and what I felt I could translate into my project were the following aspects: the text, (in my case the poems) would be an embarking point for reflection. This reflection would not be a religious one but a contemplative one, offering responses to the modern world. It would be presented in a calendar format, following the months of the year, times of day and the seasons. It would contain a linear structure (a calendar year) but the reader/viewer could choose when and where they accessed the films. My final aim was to somehow replicate the everyday quality of the medieval Books of Hours, and to depict the ‘illustrations in the margins.’ By creating a digital project which utilizes our accessibility to screens and downloads, I could also replicate the portability of the medieval books. I wanted the colours and sounds of the films to complement the total experience just as the illustrated pages in the medieval manuscripts complement the texts in the book. The themes which link the whole collection are reflections on the passage of time; reflections on the impact of urban lifestyles on rural landscapes and the transience of memory.
Each poetry film was created ‘in conversation’ with the film-maker rather than me ‘giving’ them a poem to adapt. Sometimes we started with an idea, sometimes we started with a sound track, or static or moving images. So all the poetry films in The Book of Hours have been created in collaboration with other artists.
Lucy English, The Book of Hours
[Susan Rich]: Who are the poets (or other writers) that you recommend? Who do you return to over and over?
[Lena Khalaf Tuffaha]: I recommend reading everything. Classics, newly-published works, what you friends are reading, what your favorite indie bookseller recommends. If a writer you admire raves about a book, check it out. And don’t just read; listen. Go to a poetry reading. Watch a video of a spoken word performance if you can’t attend one. If you know another language, even if you’re not proficient, give yourself permission to muddle through poems in that language. I’m always reading in Arabic, in French, and stumbling through original Neruda poems (in the privacy of my own reading spaces). Nourish the sources of sound and prayer in your poetry.
Susan Rich, Five Questions and Answers with Poet On the Coast Alumna Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
I’m currently obsessed with several hybrid works: Marwa Helal’s Invasive species (Nigthboat, 2019), and a book of essays, All The Fierce Tethers (Sarabande, 2019), by poet Lia Purpura. Books that have awed and thrilled and taught me in recent years include Solmaz Sharif’s Look, and Ada Limon’s The Carrying. I’ve spent this poetry month tweeting a poem a day by an Arab American poet, a love letter to my community, and in the process I’ve revisited so many treasures. Books across centuries, from Khalil Gibran to Suheir Hammad to Fady Joudah to Nathalie Handal. In my writing practice, I often return to June Jordan, to Sharon Olds. So many loves, too many to list!
I went to Jeremy Dixon’s reading from his pamphlet In Retail, a sequence of numbered, untitled poems resulting from his time working in a well-known pharmacy chain. “Most of the poems,” writes Jeremy in his introduction, “began life as hurried lines scribbled on the back of a length of till-roll in the lull between sales. As staff members were not allowed to carry any personal items while on the shop-floor, I hid these scraplets in my sock and prayed that today wasn’t the surprise-spot-search-in-the-store-cupboard day.” Now, that is what I want to read! Urgent poems that demand to be written. Poems smuggled out of a hostile environment.
The design of the book (by Cherry Potts at Arachne Press) deserves mention for its meticulous attention to the spirit and origin of the poems. The head and foot of each page carry mirror-text in a faded grey utilitarian font: very much like what one might see showing through the flimsy paper of a till-receipt. Moreover, the text at the foot of each page can be read in either direction as a found poem running through the sequence.
Ama Bolton, Bristol Artists’ Book Event 2019
I didn’t know what she was:
that brittle, reed-like,
human-like riddle.
A paper whisper.
A burn.She made an ark
Romana Iorga, Alter Ego
for a language the color
of loneliness.
Words rushed to her.
So did the clouds.
This mind map was on the wall near the entrance to the exhibition of Eva Jiricna’s architecture, so I’m not sure if she created it, or if it’s there permanently. Either way, I identified with the creative process it details: the mess-ups and detours, the going in circles and the dead ends. It also made me question the way I work. Look at the right hand side, ‘work, work, work’. Is that really me, nose to the grindstone. Probably not, at least, not in terms of writing. Why? Well, things get in the way, my job for example, cleaning the house, walking the dog, going for a swim, going to the pub or a gig, messing about with collages and composite fictions (a phenomenally rewarding distraction).
I used to be able to cut myself off and I probably had more focus (in terms of poetry at any rate). These days, however, I embrace distractions. I won’t allow myself to feel bad about this because it’s a way of feeding my thoughts. I do realise though, that when you’re fixed on a goal, writing or otherwise, your work has more of a purpose. You know (at least vaguely) where the writing’s going, what you want to achieve. I’ve had eighteen months or so where I’ve not been sure of where I’m heading, even though I still write and get poems published fairly regularly. This lack of direction is self-induced; after my last pamphlet was published, I was determined to experiment, and to do something different. Up to now, I’ve let that principle guide me.
Julie Mellor, Follow the map …
I had a bad week at work, or I should say a difficult week, since, truthfully, nothing bad actually happened. It just felt bad. Like I was driving a clunker, almost out of gas, miles from an off-ramp, behind an 18 wheeler going about 40 on a 55 mph highway. And more than just slowing me down, with me watching the little red gas pump light up on the dash, I couldn’t see what was up ahead.
Risa Denenberg, Sunday Morning Muse with 28 Poems and an Herb Garden
I have, however, kept my commitment to write a poem a day all of April, and now I have 28 sonnets sitting on 28 pages, pretty as you please, waiting for the revisions to begin. Writing is the joy, the reward. Of course there were some very disappointing rejections to swallow, and, I’m afraid, more of those to come soon. I’m usually pretty tolerant of rejections, but I have to admit that when slight faith didn’t make the long list for the Suk prize, it stung. It’s been out for almost a year now, and it feels like it’s run is over without really getting out of the starting gate. Lord, I’m full of corny metaphors today.
The last time
I wrote daily poems
during Aprilyou printed them
and paperclipped them
in a sheaf.I was so grateful
that you saw me
even a little.When I spotted them
Rachel Barenblat, April dailies
on your bedside table
my cup overflowed.
What prompts a poem, really? Probably differs from writer to writer to such a degree that discussing inspiration can be an intriguing discourse among fellow poets but not a method to instruct anyone “how to.” A poem, or any work of art, can be interpreted or reconstructed through analysis, but simply following someone else’s instructions is unlikely to lead to meaningful results.
Among my Best Beloveds are a few people who are excellent how-to writers. They can write about how to build a boat, debug a software program, light a face for photographic portraits, construct a Windsor chair, use a beading pattern to make a bracelet. This sort of work is surprisingly challenging to write well–think of how many times you’ve been frustrated by a poorly-written manual for one of your digital or mechanical devices. Good, clear, concise how-to writing requires intelligence, accuracy, awareness of the reader’s skill level, critical analysis, and a clarity of style the unpracticed writer lacks. And by unpracticed writer, I mean most of us!
After 25 days of writing poetry drafts, I cannot suggest to anyone how to write a poem. Perhaps someone with more experience in the process (such as Luisa Igloria) can weigh in on how to write a poem (she teaches creative writing, after all, at Old Dominion). At the end of this month, I will resort back to my usual process of intermittent drafts; though it’s possible that this month of discipline will stick–maybe I will be more productive for awhile. Mostly what I will need to do is to REVISE! Because with 30 drafts to work on, I can stay busy tweaking and reworking (and giving up, occasionally) on poems for months to come.
Ann E. Michael, How-to
But what does “self-sabotage” really mean for me in regards to my art and how do I avoid it? It means, if my life is falling down around me, I will still put poetry, writing, and art first. If I made a commitment to a group of friends that I am going to submit my work once a week–I do. If I signed up to be in a group where I said, “Yes, I promise to show up and write a poem each day”–I do. If a magazine writes to me with the proof of my poems and says they need the contract back in 3 days and they need my poems proofed–done.
Kelli Russell Agodon, Catching Up and Undoing the Art of Self-Sabotage
Yes, my house may look like a ransacked mess. I may be pulling my clothes from laundry baskets or more so, the actual dryer. We may be having appetizers for dinner or I’m eating canned chili I found in the pantry. I may be driving and be so tired I have to pull over and sleep in a parking lot for 30 minutes before I get home. I may have a list of things I need to do, appointments I need to make, but when it comes to my writing life, I will be the worker bee as I love the honey, the sweetness poetry can grant me even in the toughest of time.
And I know for me, my writing is my place of flow. It’s why I’ve been writing a poem-a-day since March (and only missed one day–Easter). It’s where I can disappear from the world, or better, take my over-the-top, this-is-terrible life and turn it into art–I actually wrote a poem last month called “My Husband Falls Down a Flight of Stairs and Lives, and I Cut My Hair.” Because all of this is fodder for our art. And sometimes the stress life is giving me actually makes my work better because it offers a tension in my poems–note: I am not asking for more stress and do not believe in creating drama or struggle for the sake of writing, I mean, if nothing was going on, I’d still be writing. BUT if life is going to be kooky, it’s going to end up in my poems…
I am discovering that I can use my free time to actually disconnect from the time-is-money 24/7 network, and remember what writing was to me before all this noise. What reading was to me. What painting, bookbinding, ceramics, dancing, yoga were to me — all these things I did not need to signal to the world and find a way to monetize it to justify/signal my existence as a “deep and knowledgeable” person.
Ren Powell, April 27, 2019
I am a teacher. And how many times have I caught myself designing an entrepreneurial project that would allow me to … continue to teach, but with a fancier title? And a sh*tload of uncertainties and risk.
I am a writer.
But I am done trying to sell that identity to anyone, or contemplating twisting my life around to it written on my tax returns.
At least for today.
It is so easy to get sucked back in.
Sometimes I think I just submit poems to American magazines via Submittable, the portal which many magazines use for receiving work, just to get my reject rate up. I’ve had very few acceptances via Submittable in general, but of the six over the last 4 years, half are from American magazines, the other half are international magazines. I don’t seem to appeal to American writers, even the ones I approach via email. Of the nine acceptances I’ve had so far this year, one has been via Submittable and I think it was the only American one, the others have been from Europe.
Gerry Stewart, Can you write American?
I was brought up in America, studied literature in America and started writing my poetry there, but it seems I can’t write poetry that American publishers like. I wonder if I write in a British or Scottish style or if it is like my accent, a hybrid of the three with a dash of that foreign flavour that can’t be pinned down.
There are lots of styles of poetry in both groups, many poetic ‘schools’, but I’ve never been able to categorise the differences between British and American poetry. I could Google of course, find articles to give me ideas, but I’m not sure how up-to-date they will be and it is a more organic thing, I believe. There’s the language, of course, I can hear America in so many American poets’ poems, the casual, loose sound of the language. It’s not that British poetry is more stiff and formal, but there is a feel to American poetry that I can’t emulate or properly explain.
What does your dream press look like? Mine looks like this: pays royalties, does some PR for you, helps get your book reviewed and puts it up for awards. What qualities does your dream press have? Does the press help you place poems after they take your manuscript in high-profile journals? Get blurbs for you instead of making you beg for them? How many author copies does it give you? Does it give you input on the cover? Answer e-mails promptly? Helps you set up a book tour? Helps promote you on social media? Has great distribution in bookstores? Has careful editors? Tell me more about your dream press in the comments!
I’d love to see this in public conversation, because my perception is that most poets (and even fiction writers) are so excited to get a book published, they don’t think about what kind of press they want to work with and send to every contest and open submissions. Does the press represent poets of color, women, people with disabilities? That’s something I look at now more than I used to. […]I’m thinking hard about this as I send out manuscripts for what will be my sixth and seventh books. I feel like at this point I need to think hard about what presses are a good fit for my work and would be great partners in the process. If this means I send out a little less than I used to, that’s okay. I’m hoping to find the perfect partner for each book.
Jeannine Hall Gailey, My Review of Deaf Republic up at Barrelhouse, Blooms and Studies in Pink, and Let’s Talk About What Makes a Dream Press
[John] McPhee described the process in one story of realizing that an encounter with a bear that happened, in chronological terms, about three-quarters of the way through the narrative, could serve to shape the entire piece. So, understanding that particular story as a circle, he started with the bear, and everything else led back to that moment.
It seems like a good idea to start with a bear. I find often people are committed to the chronological narrative of what they’re talking about in a poem, and can get visibly shaken when it’s suggested that they throw that chronology out the window.
I was thinking about this while reading Diane Seuss’s poem “Still Life with Turkey.” The center of the poem is her recollecting being asked, when she was a young child, if she wanted to view her father in his coffin. She said no, and the poem reflects on her role now as someone thirsty for seeing. So the poem starts with sight, not the father but a turkey in a still life: ” The turkey’s strung up by one pronged foot…” The poem lingers on the turkey for a few lines, then wanders to the memory, reflects then, “…Now I can’t get enough of seeing…” and ends with the turkey: “…the glorious wings, archangelic, spread/as if it could take flight, but down,/downward into the earth.”
The journey of the poem, like the journey of a story, should start with — and take you to — the bear.
Marilyn McCabe, Coming round again; or, THIS is the post on structure I meant to post last week
I like to read poems that hurt like I hurt,
PF Anderson, I Like to Read Poems (A Double Sonnet)
that swell in my throat like sugar, and cut
my tongue like rosehips (red, bitter, and curt),
like black tea carves new landscapes in the mouth.
Poems that don’t fake it, and don’t have to. They
can take it, being chewed up like gristle,
and sometimes you have to put them away
or swallow whole. Standoffish ones, bristle
and glare, part bear, part ice, loping across
a bridge crumbling under their weight, and fate
alone says if the bridge falls or they pass
thru.
Reading it out loud to that roomful of people, I realized that one of the great strengths of this poem is that each line ends at a spot where you’d pause or
Amy Miller, 30 Great Poems for April, Day 23: “There Are Birds Here” by Jamaal May
take a breath. This poem talks, like the poet is sitting next to you in a café and relating this story. And the way he tells it, it’s one remembered assertion after another, just as you’d say it to someone: “No, / I don’t mean the bread is torn like cotton, / I said confetti, and no / not like the confetti / a tank can make of a building.”
Every time I read this poem, I think about how many conversations we have like this on a national scale, in our jobs, and in our personal lives. How many white people are going around saying they know how things are and how to fix them, when they don’t know the reality at all? And how often are misinformed people trying, and succeeding, to control the narrative when they don’t know what they’re talking about? Whitesplaining (as in this poem), mansplaining, a whole lot of other splaining. When really, what they should be internalizing is “Shut up and let someone else do the talking while you listen.” This poem says that, beautifully. What a gift.
Sometimes, it’s hard to determine where I do my best work. There’s home, where much of the creative plotting and dreaming happens in places like the shower and the bed. There’s my daily bus ride, where I come up with a lot of ideas for all sorts of projects (and also where I get the bulk of my daily reading done–obviously related). Weirdly, I sometimes have amazing ideas walking down Michigan or waiting for my coffee on my way to the studio. I do however, have several intentional workspaces where any number of different things happen and I’ve been musing over the right conditions under which things bloom and are constructed.
Kristy Bowen, places and spaces
We are walking, with every step
James Lee Jobe, ‘A hot day in the valley. The sun’
Our shoes caress the broken sidewalk.
An old song comes to mind
And when we are sure we are alone
We begin to sing aloud.
Ladybugs had chosen the same beach to rest
Magda Kapa, Ladybugs at the Baltic Sea
We tiptoed on the stones trying not to step on them
They and we, all helpless in the strong north wind
They couldn’t fly away and we couldn’t stop walking
Pretending that the sun was enough was difficult
Just like in the lives one leaves behind
So sunny and colourful death can be
I felt raw-boned & rusted
Dragging my hands in pockets full of scaredPockets full of scared &
Walking a road rutted with wanting to get outI was wanting to get out
Charlotte Hamrick, Raw Boned
That red dirt prison, that green-treed mess
So last night I had a dream that I was visited by another poet. We drank wine, overindulged in pastries. Chatted with my wife. Listened to music and I must have taken my blood sugar three or four times in the dream. Talking shop might have been fun but we didn’t do that. I don’t often have poets invited into my dreams for some reason but when it happens it is usually a delight. I confess usually there is something a bit eccentric that happens.
Michael Allyn Wells, Confession Tuesday – Good Week for Writing & Stakes
It seems that living in the now becomes harder with all the stuff in the world going on. It’s not at all easy to do and not think about worldly problems. I hope to immerse myself more into reading and writing in the week ahead.
Napoleon’s site of self-coronation
Kristin Berkey-Abbott, Poetry Tuesday: “Lessons from the Cathedral”
burns, but the work of daily life must
continue. I revise the accreditation
documents again. Others complete
their taxes, clean, make sure to feed
the children, the pets, all the helpless
creatures. Parisians gather to sing
the hymns we had forgotten
that we needed.