I admit it. Sometimes at the end of the semester, especially the spring semester, I don't even try to write. Yesterday, as I waited for a student I made a little chart of the weeks in the summer, summer starting for me on May 12th, because I'll be done with all grading and student response (I think). Now I am in the time of limbo, waiting for things to be turned in, putting off computations of attendance and miscellanea.
This is a good time to send work out, so this morning I sent 7 poems winging away electronically. And 3 returned almost immediately--ancient journal data. But they're in the right place (maybe) now.
Then language intruded, I started to make notes on my post it size grocery list, harder to fit phrases in, turning it sideways and drawing some arrows. Sometimes incoming poetry stuff can't be stopped (has something to do with frosting in a can [which I would be excommunicated from the family for using] and making a cake of myself!).
National Poetry Month is almost over. I have written a poem (not the frosting one), attended two Emily Dickinson-oriented events (one musical, one academical), met with my poetry group, officially received an individual artist grant, went to a poetry reading by an Ohio poet, participated in a large group poetry reading (8 minutes each), had a poem posted on two different library sites for NPM and Poem in Your Pocket Day, commented on and discussed face to face 176 student poems (at least), went to a Poetry in the Museum event, and ate at a creative writing student lunch.
Cool thing: a map of all the bookstores and libraries in the U.S. Glad to see there's a giant overlapping cluster of stuff over where I live: map
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Waves of guilt emanate from the computer for the blog-poet (which sounds good but is in the wrong order) who has not yet blogged in the month of April, who has not yet written a poem, who is reading nowhere in these 30 days, who has only been to one event (but is going to one later today), who feels a little weary right now, who is not caught up in the thrall of language, who sat at her desk and looked at her emails and Facebook and the weather before starting to write, who read some Emily Dickinson and some George Keithley, who did some laundry and vacuumed, who pretended getting a manila folder and putting some pages in it counted, who looked out the window, who went shopping for summer clothes (or at least spring), who took her car for an oil change, who enjoyed her walk back even though the wind was fierce, who sliced a banana on her Cheerios, who knows tomorrow is all about 30 student poems and the coaxing and clipping that is like a kind of gardening, who will go to the museum and listen to other poets later today and take notes that may lead with their random tendrils to a poem.