In the Head, a Hive of Divine Bees
Unexpectedly, a sudden comet appeared, unannounced: I reached entry number 2,000 for “The River, Fractured.” By surprise, the section’s closure lies firm with an end stop, an intake of air.
There exist times when my subconscious follows habitual patterns for writing, instinctually seeking an arrangement of ebb and flow of elements and phrases, mirroring natural iambics embedded in English language. Poetry pulsates in the head, a hive of divine bees. Sometimes waking me at night. Like my son on the weekends, shaking me from deep sleep. Waking me with a stage whisper: “Daddy? Daddy, wake up!”
Bees Ball a Hornet © Bee Boy
His personal sense of confidence strengthens overnight, without warning. I remember childhood more as a time of hesitancy, questioning any action, always seeking confirmation from a parent. Whereas, Brendan boldly heads into the woods seeking giants and wolves to contend with; he craves action and developing plot structures. If he is ever cautious, the hesitancy lingers briefly, and then he is off, a whirlwind in his wake.
• February and March did not produce much journal writing. Distractions rained down from all directions: work, family, editing final stages of my book. It feels odd saying "my book"—there are days I forget it is in production, and then a small reminder appears. Nervous excitement returns. The whole history of the book's delay, this stalling to such a late point in time, is riddled with negativity and self-doubt. Numerous factors exist. But for every rejection, a reshuffling of poems occurred, a casual shift in themes and narrative points of view.
The central core of the book remained the same throughout all the revisions: the middle section displays a sonnet sequence of twenty poems, producing a persona lost in his lack of connection and understanding with his immediate environment. That existential crisis everyone eventually experiences at one point in their life. Three sample poems can be read on the Saint Julian site, the first two works lifted from the sonnet series.
I was anticipating the last entry to be a broken line, fractured from its parent theme, before the poem picked up the point again—which would not be major cause for concern if it had—however, the poem itself provided a closed curtain at the end of Act II, a formal announcement of a brief interval.
The central core of the book remained the same throughout all the revisions—
There exist times when my subconscious follows habitual patterns for writing, instinctually seeking an arrangement of ebb and flow of elements and phrases, mirroring natural iambics embedded in English language. Poetry pulsates in the head, a hive of divine bees. Sometimes waking me at night. Like my son on the weekends, shaking me from deep sleep. Waking me with a stage whisper: “Daddy? Daddy, wake up!”
His personal sense of confidence strengthens overnight, without warning. I remember childhood more as a time of hesitancy, questioning any action, always seeking confirmation from a parent. Whereas, Brendan boldly heads into the woods seeking giants and wolves to contend with; he craves action and developing plot structures. If he is ever cautious, the hesitancy lingers briefly, and then he is off, a whirlwind in his wake.
The central core of the book remained the same throughout all the revisions: the middle section displays a sonnet sequence of twenty poems, producing a persona lost in his lack of connection and understanding with his immediate environment. That existential crisis everyone eventually experiences at one point in their life. Three sample poems can be read on the Saint Julian site, the first two works lifted from the sonnet series.
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