It’s been so long since I’ve blogged, so long since I’ve Tweeted or Facebook-ed or posted on Instagram or anything, anywhere, anyhow, I feel afraid to start again . . .
But I keep meaning to . . .
My excuse: I’ve been working on my next book, which was due March 1st, and I mean, due, as in no more changes after that date without incurring a fee, as in, changes are no longer welcome, as in, don’t be one of those annoying, demanding poets who totally pisses of her publisher.
As soon as an editor says no changes, I panic. Because I am the typo queen. I am the revision queen. And I never ever finish writing a poem, an essay, a story—even after the thing is published. I just keep fixing it
There are times when I rewrite a poem over fifty times. And it’s still not right. The same with doodles— I mean, they are never quite right. Today I am not sure why the outline, the frame, on this doodle above didn’t come through (except on the right) when I exported it from FLASH, but oh well. It’s a doodle after all, not a poem . . .
But back to poetry . . . When I am trying to meet a deadline, I wipe out. I literally write and edit in my sleep. After a while, the poems begin to blur in front of me. Sometimes I have to close my eyes to see a poem clearly.
But this week, I have been listening to such great readings at the Virginia Festival of the Book, and I’ve been reading a lot of the social media posts about the writers and the events. I keep thinking I should find my way back into the social media buzz. I should at least be saying something about my favorite reading, which was the one I introduced, a reading by January Gill O’Neil , Rebecca Morgan Frank , and Leona Sevick .
All three are poets of lyrical beauty and spiritual honesty. And humor. After listening to them read, I kept hearing their poems in my head. In fact, I am thinking of going out and getting one of those pots Leona spoke about in her poem, “Self-help.” (You can find it on the link above.)
She begins the poem:
First, get yourself a good cast iron pot. Don’t skimp.
You know what kind; you see them everywhere
And think, Who would pay that much for a fucking pot?
You will . . .