Friday, January 28, 2011

self

Going through poems, culling, removing, rearranging. Soon it'll be time for a final printing, binding, addressing and sending; then the however long of waiting.

I'm in a roving mood again, pacing and desperate for something I can't put my finger on. The weather is tricky, a little Summer has come into our days and I'm trying not to be fooled by it. I'm trying not to get excited because I know sooner than later the clouds and cool will swoop back in and I'll have months of bundling left.

Last night I was reading through a collection of someone else's poems then went to my own and started reading through. I had a moment. I looked up at B who was sprawled on the sofa and said I'm a good poet. He laughed and agreed. But I forget or I worry sometimes. I spend a lot of time writing and reading. In my heart I have great ambitions to write more prose, to publish novels. But at the heart of it I'm a poet. What an art to have been chosen by. Hardly anyone reads poetry, except for poets. Poets make no money. They're rarely respected. I barely ever tell anyone I write poetry because I can almost imagine the eye roll, and annoyance. Everyone has known a terrible poet. But I'm not a terrible poet. I work hard. I'm learning to wear it well.

Still reading Leonard Cohen's Book of Longing. Some of the poems hit gut. I love that. What hit my gut is most likely different from what hits your gut but this poem, Looking Away, got me. The last two lines especially. Yes Leonard, I too attempt to leave the reader with bite marks.

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