Of course, I caught his bug. Resulting in my physical speaking voice withering away to either a grumpy frog or a soft whisper. I drink tea. I drink water. I gargle salt. No results. Only a constant awareness of my throat and a faint itchy sensation on my vocal cords. Perhaps after a twenty-four hour window things will change again.
On Twitter this month I posted a picture of a broken ceramic garden sculpture from the backyard.
Reading translations of Bashō’s work leaves me envious for his sense of imagery— his tight epiphanies lined up in each verse.
And likewise, for some reason I keep falling back on using the moon as an element in my work. There are days I resent readers pointing this fact to me— other days the moon’s presence blooms over the house, a gradual reminder of why I write poetry in the first place.
On another point, I discovered three elemental topics which cannot be reworked into a satisfactory haiku/hokku verse for me. I keep rethinking the concepts, bringing them to two different extremes. Either when reworking them into greater abstractions, lessening the syllable count, reducing the weight of the words, nothing develops. OR, the opposite, the image is isolated down to a specific thought. A specific time. Even a specific color. Ten words. Twelve syllables.
• Today the cypress trees shift towards tones of blood-rust.
• Stuck in late afternoon traffic: a small twisting of cigarette smoke emerged from a car passenger window; it radiated for a moment in slanted angles of sun. Neon halo.
• Under a crescent moon, a galleon thunderstorm drifted across the eastern horizon line, shouting out random thrashings, thunderings, flashings against the full darkness of itself.
Either way, the concepts do not want to become formalized scenes. They do not want to be something other than what they are.
I do not know what blocks me lately from working on the poems for Grackle, Fox, and She-Bear. This manuscript stumbles along in a drunken pace. Like the broken bowl, it sits there without a function, without purpose. The cohesion for the work exists, but in a metaphoric sense. Somewhere in my head the ideal collection sits waiting to be claimed. But time and circumstances have prevented my full attention towards the project. I feel like whining more about what I have not done this year, rather than motivating myself into action. If one is not careful, these blogs become a laundry list of negatives. I'll blame my feelings on the cold medication and close.
The boy upstairs will be waking soon. He'll offer some insight for the time being.