182/365 - 186/365

11.09.10
Stumbling with the third section of latest poem. Even when walking around the pond today, I circled at least two or three times before a haiku concept arrived. Usually the verse composes itself immediately, with the formulated pace of my walk—
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But the poem, the poem “Learning Spanish” wanders into a memory without a sense of personality—the persona seems dry, cardboard cutout—I suppose the lady with the pushcart needs a voice. A phrase or a glance. Personify an abstraction of reality. Can she become Memory itself? Or Language?
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Crescent moon shifting—
a rising epiphany—
listens intently.
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Another day lies
without clear inspirations.
No new fresh-faced muse.

11.10.10
Interrupted walk
caught in unexpected rain.
Memories falling.

11.11.10
Discovered an Irish sculptor, Fidelma Massey, (http://www.irishsculpture.com/) who creates wonderful work, images unique and eccentric, based off a mythic energy and dream logic in a variety of forms and symbolic archetypes. I envy the mannerism of her figures—they arch and bend, blur between a theatre masque procession and a tableau depicting ancient gods and goddesses—they curve within themselves, half human, half animal.

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Halfway round the pond.
In the distance faint music:
a boy with a flute.

11.12.10
Sunlight curves within
the base of blue ceramics
coiling tight circles.

11.13.10
The night splits open
spilling out blue black voices
from unseen grackles.