Sunday, February 13, 2005


I am thinking of sending a poem out. I am still so new to all of this that I am not sure if it is complete yet, or appropriate, or if I should have the gall. Yes, gall, cheeky me. I wrote this poem in a flash one afternoon but it clicked. This clickiness is what makes me think I should. But neuroses aside, bravery and gall and canon and filled bookshelves teeming with reasons I should not, I still am considering. I don’t want this to become one of those writer’s blogs who fill pages and pages with dread filled worries and trials. And despite the name of this blog, dread is not woe. I write because I like to, want to, find myself in the pages of notes I make. On the one hand, publication is a time stamp of acceptance, but I am not sure I need that. But maybe. Gall.

Our living room is the library. We call it that, because we have put almost all of our books there. Adequate furniture but filled with many books and their shelves. They warm the room, insulate the room, and add colour to the “living” room. Lots of dead guys (and girls) whose words warm our lives. So every time I walk in there, browse, dust, choose, gape, and straighten, I am faced with that. Same reason I used to work in libraries. The warmth of the gift. Choosing friends in which to spend time. Ever since I was a child, books, absorbing the warmth of my hands have warmed me. Challenged me. Comforted me. Taught me. Teased and tickled.

But the difference I realize now is the amount of effort that is necessary. Recently read advice: read 50 poems for every one you write. It really is a matter of supremely hard work. And that is where I am now. Recognizing the length and breadth of this endeavor, but still considering it. So editing is becoming my friend. Slash and burn and edit and repeat. Perhaps a new recipe for my writing. I like cooking! But that is another room! There are books there too! There is no escape!!

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