New ideas were slow in formation this week. Selfdoubt still plagues even now after so much personal development of style and achievements with writing over the past few years.
Furthermore, a damn popsong keeps filtering through my head, throwing my concentration off from my warm room project—the song’s meter mangles the sought-out rhythms and harmony for the verse, altering the patterns I want to use— makes my words clutter, fall offkey, falter.
Adding to my frustration: I cannot bend the poem to suit the selected persona—his voice runs counter to my own: confident, angry, rebellious, defiant, hints of respect (when he feels it is earned) … everything I develop for this new voice, for this personality crumbles into further unnecessary fractures without a sense of connections, without true cohesion… the poem inches forward, when once it galloped…
Probable Manuscript Titles
• 1913: The Warm Room
• Warm Room, Open Window, Unmade Bed
• the unmade bed translated
• suspended world
• remains of an uncalm world
• the wild green outside
• nervous rookery