Auld Lang Syne
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
up late, too late
Well, it is late and I am still awake. My head is busy and won't settle. So a list:
no caffeine so no excuse
head busy but no writing on the way at this point
want to clean house but too noisy to do that (hate to disturb hubby)
One great thing, but sad:
Jack Myers' new and LAST book is out. I have ordered it. Jack, I miss you and your great advice as a mentor.
There is no one like Jack. He was a huge influence on me and my view of myself as a poet. I can count on the fingers of ONE hand those who have had lasting (and direct) influence on my work:
1. BH Fairchild
2. Jack Myers
3. Henry Beston
4. Richard Wilbur
5. Steve Kowit
OK you feminists out there, I KNOW these are all men. I am unapologetic here. I am a woman and it just seems normal to have the OUTSIDE influences of men to balance that. I think it makes me more FULL-bodied as a poet. But I will list the woman influences just for sake of, well for the sake of not getting into a fuss with my woman friends:
1. Dorianne Laux
2. Elizabeth Bishop
3. Marie Howe
4. Laure-Anne Bosselaar
5. Edna St Vincent Millay
So there they are, the two fists of poets I need to stay focused.
Might think of taking a pill right now to ease my insomnia. A tylenol PM. That seems to do it on these odd occasions when I am too revved up to snoozle.
Poetry Month has bee very very stressful for me this year. But there is nothing I could do about that. I will be glad for it to be done and gone in a few days and then I can get back to the REAL world of my poetry.
I submitted to a book-length contest today. That feels normal to me. I have a couple other submissions to do by the 30th. I have 3 complete manuscripts and they need homes, shelves, reviews, (public acclaim?) Funny, I am happy about the new book being out and all the readings, the launch, etc. But I am itching to get another project going, finished, OUT THERE.
It is wonderful to see the work keep on flowing. I am grateful for this opportunity to say what I see in the world. Being a poet is like childbirth... the pleasure, the waiting in pain, then a final effort, then a good meal and a glass of wine after.
Wait, is it like childbirth or like sex? Wait, is it like sex followed by childbirth? Wait, is it like sex, followed by childbirth, followed by ....... ?
Now I am starting to get a bit tired. No pill for me. Think I will put on some perfume and go cuddle with that cute husband of mine. Pure poetry.