My daughter is at marching band rehearsal for another 20 minutes or so. Because she is percussion, she will have to haul her drum up to the band room from the field, store it, store the harness. I write here and remember that I need to call her band director to say yes or no to the waffle wagon shift with him. I need to call my friend in charge of uniforms to see if it's too late to order a new pair of marching shoes since the Girl just discovered during camp that hers are falling apart, uppers detaching from sole (there is probably a poem in that. Hm. There's definitely a poem in that).
I'm reading Jorie Graham and Mary Jo Bang, the girls, the girls. I have Merwin's fat book and Ashbery's less fat but more daunting book here in the living room with me. I went to bed with the girls last night. The boys...I don't know. I want to understand why they are so good, and I do! I do! But I don't feel their heat when I read them. I want to feel their heat when I read them. I think I will. I hope I will. I already do love some Merwin, though he is "dense" and for my puny brain is like eating Greek food that is too heavy on the garlic (had Greek food for my birthday, which is why it is on my brain. Love Greek food, partly because I am Greek, or half Greek, but sometimes it's too much for me the way some poetry is too much for me though I am (kind of) a poet).
It feels sacrilegious to write this. In two years, lovely Merwin will have won me over completely with lines like (random flipping through pages): I heard the sparrows shouting, "Eat, eat,"/And then the day dragged its carcass in back of the hill./Slowly the tracks darkened.
The poets will teach me what I'm doing wrong.
Or simply will teach me another way of seeing.
During the two-week residency, I did begin to learn another way of seeing.
My brother called me yesterday to wish me a belated happy birthday. He was in an airport returning home from somewhere (he is always returning from somewhere). His daughter is coming home from a New York internship soon, but he may miss her arrival since he has to leave for Brazil then goes to Australia then to Amsterdam. I'm grateful he is not going to London.
He is so happy for me, knowing that I'm finally allowing myself to study this thing that I love so much, this Poetry. He talked about how his children are doing what they love, how he is so grateful to see them following their passions.
Oh, eh. This is stupid. There, there.
I have six minutes until the morning is over. I want to keep this a morning post.
Later, I will go to the library to see if I can find a Louise Glück collection that appeals to me. I'd rather read her essays than her poems.
Before I go to bed, I want to finish one bad draft of a short poem, find all the elements of another poem I need to finish by Aug. 24, start a poem just for me that I want to write that has nothing to do with exercises or new ways of seeing.
I just want to write.