5: 57 am
Try as I might, I just can’t get anything.
I had awakened remembering so much, so clearly but when I tried to start writing it here…
It’s gone, nearly everything.
All I have left is that I was in a meeting with others who were about to put on a performance of some kind and they needed a man to play a female role, someone who could make it funny.
I volunteered and everyone thought it would be great.
That’s all I got.
——
6:09 am
The morning thrush has begun whistling that odd, somewhat random-sounding song.
I had an idea for a poem from yesterday.
Listening to Krista Tippett interviewing Sharon Olds.
She is a delightful interview.
Whimsically recalling a rejection letter back in the mid 70s.
They’d suggested, “If you wish to write about your children, may we suggest The Ladies’ Home Journal? We are a literary magazine.”
This was of course, well before she became the first American woman to win the T. S. Eliot Prize for Poetry.
Krista said she was also probably the first poet in history to write a poem about her diaphragm.
This statement seems a bit euro-centric to me but I’ll let that go for now.
6:34 am
I sit very still for a moment.
And then another.
The volume and brightness of the jungle’s morning bird songs increase.
As if on cue.
I know my sweetheart can sense it.
——
6:59 am
I’ve been thinking about poetic form.
I know so little about anything in this regard.
Will it be better to NOT try and educate myself about this?
Does my lack of study make my poetry better or…
not even really poetry?
I had a similar self-critique a few years ago when my Berklee School of Music-educated friend schooled me a bit on my song-writing.
I’d been writing songs for thirty-five years by then.
A bird chirps loudly just outside my door.
Steady and even polytones.
Quick and succinct.
And then flies off to rejoin the chorus.
Point taken.
——
Blessed…
m(___)m
