137/365 - 141/365
The bulk of the moon
transitions behind cypress
branches. Then a crow.
Struggling with 3 or 4 poems at once. None of them behaving in any sense of the word. And I am tired of complaining of all the failures in my life. Think of the words. The flow of phrases. Maybe watch Wings of Desire. Would spark the old energies again.
Yannis Ritsos helps. The translations of his work prove a valuable resource.
caught among storming egrets,
a circling tempest.
Stalled out on five or six projects—I say “stalled” as if they were engines sputtering, then flooding over with belches of diesel. Each of the individual poems rest in various stages of unfinished modes.
Yet it feels good to have these handfuls of work waiting to be completed. I progress, motion forward. Receive a rejection—send out newer material. Do not make a connection, send an email to another poet I admire. Fight the invisibility. Resist the notion of isolation.
A slight apathy
descends; words seem to fail me.
Unfinished poems wait.
After a walk around the pond—an hour’s walk, a probable conclusion was reached for my “3 Scenes” poem—it is a full working draft at least. The morning may prove it too awkward—the ending stanzas jolt slightly, jumping between two subjects. To my ear, it sounds fluid—a planned, eccentric strategy, not a haphazard meandering.
Another reject from River Styx; annoyance. “Not enough votes” the note read. At least the reject slip was personalized. Not fully formal.
Fall walked in last week,
unannounced with hat in hand.
Terse smile on his face.
Strips of dried guava. Water. Reading poetry in late afternoon. Waiting on electrician to arrive to install a ceiling fan—
rime = hoarfrost
A basic statement:
while watering gardenias,
a green dragonfly.