Creation of a New Hagiography

I have been tracking my blood pressure lately; the numbers accelerate into higher levels, despite my efforts to lower the stress. Slow escalation on a daily basis. Sometimes I can feel the pressure peaking: blood heating up in my ears, the pulse within the wrists speeding up for no apparent reason. Even with a prescribed medication, the only result is a dry cough and a need for water.
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Sunday, April 10: Just after we settled in for the night, Brendan woke up at 9.30 pm, hungry and desperate for food. Fortunately we had yet to fall asleep or even feel drowsy—within five minutes he swallowed the full formula and collapsed back into an exhausted slumber.
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Saturday afternoon I took time to work in the backyard, briefly weeding, watering, arranging pots for future plants. Even began the process of removing a dead bush along the property line—trimmed away the smaller branches and put a bird feeder behind what remained of the stump.
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The poem “—To A Former Lover in Minneapolis” has turned into a bitter, angry rant. Which is not what I want. Painfully honest—yes. Bitter accusations—no. I need to rethink the word choice in the closing section. The scene with Bob choking in his sleep, due to over-drinking—it ties in with the theme ironically. Curb back the resentment and redirect towards the original intentions.
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Monday April 11: Nothing soothed the baby today—after class I held him securely, wrapped tight in both arms, and paced around the house for over an hour and a half—only this kept him quiet and at ease. At any moment, if I rested him in his cradle, the crib, or in his walker—the frustrations would erupt, angry tirades over being a baby—so we paced the house, over and over, until Ricky arrived and then he took over, calming the storm.
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The poetry journal Assaracus accepted seven poems of mine for future publication in January 2012. My store house of verse is now dwindled to a handful of words. The pressure of needing to create more material causes a sense of numbness. A blank white wall. Sometimes I panic, fearing the extended writer’s block I experienced in the Nineties has returned. Breathe. Always remember to breathe.
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Three new poetry books arrived in the mail—my library clutters with new reading—last few weeks have felt a lack of motivation to write, to read. The everyday existence catches you off guard sometimes. But now with the new reading material perhaps I can refocus. Regroup. But right now, this moment at 9:40 pm on Friday April 15, my energy fades. With the baby asleep in his crib and Ricky reading, my sense of responsibility shuts off. Responsibility to self I mean. The flow of poetry in my head grows quiet. Earlier today I managed to find Galway Kinnell’s “St. Francis and the Sow”—understandably I want to create a new hagiography entry for St. Brendan, expand the story of the voyage and the whale itself—obviously this should be a series of poems and not just one piece. I do not want to mirror Kinnell’s work too closely. Emulate his intentions in some fashion, yes. A crisp mirroring, no.