It's Thursday of my spring break week, which means my professor is likely to start posting assignments and suggestions as early as Saturday to get us back into the semester.
Here is what I've done this week of rest:
- I've read more fiction than poetry (what a lovely indulgence!)
- I've written bilge
- I've slept
- I've watched a couple of films I hadn't seen
- I've hung out with my daughter when she's been home
- I've clipped the cat's claws
- thought about scrubbing down my bedroom
- thought about tackling the mounds of paper in my study
- thought about the fiction book I will write on when I'm finished with my MFA
- thought about a project that I hope won't cost me too much money but might be a grand way to get the area youth interested in poetry without forcing them to sit inside and write with a "practicing" poet though maybe they won't feel forced if they understand that when I say writing with a practicing poet, I mean, I write with them and share my process with them and show them how I - personally - get from A to C to M to Z (though Z is usually a hard destination for me to find)
So far, I haven't submitted poems to the two journals I vowed I would target, but I have the rest of today and tomorrow. If I'm going to take my work seriously, I have to send it out. I have to give the work and myself the respect we deserve.
So I will.
I also haven't read the next collection on our syllabus by Robert Dana (well, I've started, and I feel kind of terrible, but I don't like his poems at all, and he is gone from us and has a prize named after him, and from everything I've heard or read was a really nice guy. Makes me feel bad that I don't like his poems so far), nor have I read the next chapters in our "text" book, though I have read a few more poems in the "Next Generation" anthology.
I've been a sloth.
It's pretty much spring here, which means I feel like crap physically but am energized mentally. Once the clock changes over on Sunday, I will fall into Insomnia Land. Because this is an Annual Event, I'm prepared and won't fight it. If I don't fight it, I might find that I can sleep. If I can't sleep, I have other things I can do in the middle of the night that will keep me productive and happy.
I have been writing poems about my father, about grief, about family (? - liar). I'm drafting one in my mother's voice. Or - hm. I'm not sure whose voice it's in yet, but it promises to be both sad and funny if I can make it work. I'm worried it will be too "big," that I'll lose the vision, that I'll try to toss in the kitchen sink.
Here's my next step in the writing of this poem: take out the word "worry" and emphasize the word "write."
I'm going to participate in a very cool prompt project starting next week (Wednesday, March 14) that a friend dreamed up with two of her friends. I don't have time, but the prompts aren't poetry-related from what I understand (though I'm sure I could make anything into a poem if I felt like it since I'm so much in poetry mode). They are story-telling prompts. Since I write every day whether I'm writing poetry or not, I thought I'd take my daily free write time and hand it over to The Scintilla Project: a fortnight of story sharing. (Now, you have to love anyone who uses the word "fortnight" and "story" on the same line and gets away with it.)
I hear a siren.
I hear my mother's voice telling me a story about her dating days.
I want to get out her costume jewelry and lay it out on top of my quilt, touch the shoe clips, imagine what sort of dress she might have worn to go out, whether the story she tells is from before or after her first husband died (before, I'm almost certain. Since I can't ask her, I'll just decide that is so).
Sometimes I forget my parents' faces, but I rarely forget the sounds of their voices.
(Just in case you were wondering, and in the interest of clarification, I do not consider this a true blog; I consider it a journal.)