I've been trying to run on my walks lately but Monday's walk/run didn't go so well because I was wearing jeans and felt like an idiot. Not to mention all the negative thoughts. Today, I wore something different and it felt way more comfortable and the path had just a little coating of fluffy snow that made it feel as if I were gliding instead of running. The birds were quite delirious as well--singing and playing in the air and there was that delicious early-Spring wet-earth smell.
I'm writing a poem a day this month and it's been like pulling teeth. I'm not writing a series--instead I've been what feels like re-training myself and using prompts from the book Wingbeats, which I learned about from Diane Lockward's very informative blog. The other poets I'm working with have been writing some incredible poems, really upping the bar, so to speak. I love being pushed and even when I know my poems haven't got the spark this particular month, and even though many other poets seem to have problems with the whole poem a day process, I believe the effort and stretching is helpful to me.
I have a poem here in Alimentum Literary Journal. This poem has had a very long journey. I submitted it to Alimentum, oh, in October 2010. It got accepted July 2011. Yep. Then the journal went from just a print publication to on-line pub, which took a little over a year. I actually did inquire about the poem, cause it was such a long process but I couldn't be more delighted with how it has ended up. Talk about learning patience.
Also, my poem, "The Ornithologist Loses Her Map Made Of Wings," is in Redactions Literary Journal, the print journal, which you want to take a look at cause that cover is just breath-taking. And then of course purchase.
The Horses are Fighting
They stand scattered and not
facing each other. Like black-eyed
susans lining the highway, or sisters
angry in some small kitchen.
The goats traipse a diagonal
through knee-high meadow,
following head to tail. Then
one decides to feed. Suddenly
they are strangers.
But how elegant these animals
seem after your funeral, each
quiet despite a whole field,
content with any fresh mouthful.
Green Mountains Review
Volume XXV, No. 2