At least October’s poetry writing month is over so I don’t have to feel guilt about not writing much. We are now into the big novel writing month, which I don’t participate in, having NO clue how to write a novel. I’m still spending more time revising, organizing, and submitting than I am writing anything original.
I’m also reading several new-to-me poems a day. I’m reading at least one novel, two memoirs, and one children’s book right now.
And I’m getting my morning pages done by bedtime.
But I also am juggling work-work, home-work, and cat-work, as well as trying to fit in the other bits and pieces of The Artist’s Way.
And I cannot stop my hit or miss exercising, which mainly consists of stationery cycling, some stretches, and a few weights.
It sounds like a lot, and it is, so can I keep it up? Through the holidays? HAHAHAHA.
All this and worries about what recipe to use for gluten free stuffing.
I almost forget the most exciting thing. I discovered Christopher Buckley’s poetry. I guess there is a political person with that name, but this is Christopher Buckley the poet. Here’s a sample.
Getting ThereTime to give upgrieving my mother’s loss,faulting my father andhis Neolithic moral certitudeabout every detailon the evening news,his general absencehanging like the graysheets on the line.Never mind howmismatched in the heart,I should be gratefulthey were there at all,for that momentthat childhood stretchedlike fog, the beach emptyand unmarked.It comes to little nowwho I forgive, mourn,or thank. The dust shiftsand we are barelysuspended in the light.I know this little thing:there’s a boy somewherein a station wherethe trains still run,wearing scuffed brown shoes,gray overcoat, and cap;someone has neatly partedand combed his hair.He is waitingto be taken by the handand told where we are going,to hear we are headed home—though I can see nothingbeyond the smokeand midnight hazeat the far endof the platform,where I am noteven sure of the stars.Poetry (May 2012)