“Why is this day different from every other day?” the naive poet wonders.
“On this day we bring lost words and slant rhymes to betters,” another says.
* * *
Forgive me, Universe, for this week I wrote under duress, the words pressed out under clawed fingers. But sometimes, that is just the way it is. I wrote. Daily. Sometimes to Read Write Poem prompts, sometimes with all kinds of other music in my head. I have to trust that these are poetic push-ups, and they will make me a better writer, one of these days.
* * *
I’ve been flailing about for a new book to read. I pick up Amy Hempel’s short stories, but can’t quite catch the wave again. I start Terry Tempest Williams’ latest, Finding Beauty in a Broken World, and I just can’t find her rhythm. I’ve been reading a Lucille Clifton book of poetry, Blessing the Boats, so I could respond to Susan’s prompt about finding a woman poet, a woman of color, and respond to the work. (I am about a third of the way through, and there are some gems, some poems about woman-ness (womanliness is not the word I want, spell-sheck!) that I do want to riff on.) I picked over some Sharon Olds (The Wellspring) but couldn’t quite find what I didn’t know I was looking for. So now I am back to Temple Grandin‘s Animals Make Us Human, that Mark and I got with our seats to hear her speak earlier in the year.
This one is what I am into, now. I’m grateful that the co-writer has not disguised Grandin’s odd voice — she is autistic and has a very focused and deliberate manner — so I can hear her voice, the musical tone and tempo and percussion of her unique voice, as I read. Yay. I love having an engaging book to read.
* * *
I started an entirely different confession last night, that will take too long for me to finish, so set it aside. It’s a little wacky.
* * *
There are a couple of things that struck me as particularly fine this week. Michelle McGrane’s “Thirteen Ways With Figs” and Falling Off the Mountain‘s blog, in general. He writes “one line poems (the monostich)” and writes them so well Amy Hempel would have his children. (Want a wonderful sampling of short-short poetry by a bunch of folks? Go to Open Micro.)
There were other high moments, too. Don’t get me wrong. All my betters are writing some fantastic stuff, but these stuck in my mind.
Finding these poets is great luck on my part. Getting “introduced” to them by other poets is one of the wonders — the most important one — in my little fragment of the poetry-online-experience. Thank you poetry friends for your love and support! I send my meager offerings your way.
* * *
More confessions are at January’s.
No related posts.
“Forgive me, Universe, for this week I wrote under duress, the words pressed out under clawed fingers. But sometimes, that is just the way it is. I wrote. Daily.”
But this is amazing, Deb. There’s no way I could write daily. You’re too hard on yourself. (I do love the image of the clawed fingers though :) )
I’m really touched by your mention of Thirteen Ways with Figs. Thank you, Deb.
xxoo, Michelle. You’re thoughtful. Yeah. I’ll give myself a break. Not from writing, but from the expectation.
And your poem rocks.
It’s amazing how writing a poem a day allows you to lower your standards. Now, if we can just figure out how to keep the momentum going after NaPo is over.