Since the 365 has come and gone, what of poetry writing for me?

I have taken a little breather from posting. I am embroiled (right word, thinking of heat and the root word: broil) in huge political mess with the school board on which I serve. But poetry is as ever, my respite. My love of the work and the words that create any world I want keep me going despite the fires of discontent that rage all around.

Yes, I am still writing. Almost daily, though not with urgency of keeping a strict discipline. Rather that discipline calls to me from my dreams, from meetings that are contentious, and from this abysmal weather that will not relent to the charms of spring.

I am writing more in the Wilbur book project; will soon set up a new discipline for that. I guess you might say I do my best when I am pressured, self-pressured. I have a bit of work too on the boyfriend book before sending it off to the rejection mill. Ha! I am actually fairly certain it will get picked up because it is a somewhat quirky premise and the poems are really good. Not being a braggart here; they are just really quite good.

I am holding off with the 365 poems revision as I need some distance. I may take them (oh well, I will take them since they are here in cyberspace with me) to AWP and work on them in the hotel each evening if my "dance card" is not too full. I really LOVED doing the project. I hope the love of it comes forth in the manuscripts (yes TWO) that are forthcoming from the project.

Until then, and in the spirit of "I'm back!" here is a poem I did recently:

Evanescence

This is the way of your dear dead,

gone but leaving a trace behind,

a waft of her perfume in your bed;

just below your window, a tread

mark in the garden, a sure sign.

This is the way of our dear dead:

not gone at all. You’re not mislead

by an etched stone. Wait for the shine,

a waft of her perfume in the bed

where you lay for years, fed

each other chiffon pie with limes.

This is the way of our dear dead

to stay on as our belovèds.

Your darling’s face won’t fade in time,

nor the waft of perfume in your bed.

Don’t forget the words she last said:

I’ll stay somehow — until your time. 

This is the way of your dear dead,

a waft of her perfume in your bed.

So enjoy this poem and stay warm. Apparently another snowstorm is rolling in tonight. Grrrr.

Maybe if we all wrote flower poems, things would change???