Friday, April 29, 2005

Almost thirty, I could quit now and be 29 forever

I just have one more to go. One more and I will have written 30 poems in 30 days.

I am tired. I have a huge blank in my mind. I am having trouble remembering words, thinking of anything concrete. It is restful in a way, like a blowing cloud. But I do prefer me with words, words flowing. I like the busy meter of my life with words. I feel very empty. I prefer the fullness.

I think I will use May to fill me back up again. May is hard for other reasons, but that refilling might help with that too. We shall see.

I had no goals in this other than to finish. On the good days I was floating on the phrases I made, the twist of life that is poetry. On the bad days I wondered whom I was kidding. Why the hell would anyone, including myself want to read that drivel? But I did see that there is a seed there. I have only been writing poetry again for the last year or two. Writing other stuff since the fall. This intensifying has changed the way I think. Not how I feel, but how I think about words, about connections, the poetic twist, turn of phrase, the lifting of life that poetry offers. NaPoWriMo has forced me to do this. Normally I don’t like to be forced to do anything, but this is only a game with myself. Me daring myself. I don’t mind that. I only cheat myself if I fail.

I still have one more poem to write. I haven’t a clue what yet. My kids keep offering suggestions. My son wants me to write a poem about a chicken-eating spider. Some giant spider that kills chickens and drags them off to their hole in the ground. Ha. The chicken theme has been taken up elsewhere so I doubt I will do this. My daughter just wants me to write about her violin. Did that. I have mined nature, spring and a few other things. Poets are miners. Instead of hard hats, we type words. We light the way in the dark cave of life. Laugh now. I need to think of some bright well-lit idea for tomorrow. I would like to do something worthy of the time I have spent. I have no idea. The absence of words does not make for very worthy poetry. Trying to describe that absence is too hard for today. So I will open another Word file and stare at that for a while. The white absence.

Thanks for reading.

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