Sunday, January 26, 2014

To Open Up

Image of the Day:  The tufted tit-mice digging kernels out of seeds, banging them on the branches to open up. 




So tomorrow, I have declared to be my own personal Poetry Day.  I plan on reading a lot of poetry, included Valzhyna Mort's Factory of Tears, starting my Anna Akhmatova biography, reading the latest 32 Poems journal.  I also hope to write some poems, revise some poems.  I want to re-visit my manuscript again and choose poems for my upcoming reading in Gloucester.  I'm also going to start fretting over the NEA application, wherein I have to choose ten poems for a very large grant.  No pressure there.  Also, a few other small poetry projects, such as thinking about chapbook possibilities and other things. 


I am preparing for this by doing every single piece of laundry I can find today, cleaning the house this past week so I wouldn't / couldn't use that as an excuse when the going gets tough and find an hour and a half has slipped by just while I vacuumed this one little area over here and vacuum the whole house.  Yesterday, I also submitted some poems because I don't want to do that tomorrow as I tend to really dislike my poetry when I'm in that mode and it's a real slog to get it done. I don't want to feel that way about my poems tomorrow. 


I am hoping that this will spark a little more enthusiasm for my poems and for doing some poetry stuff. Also, because I haven't had the time or finances to do other kinds of poetry stuff that can help kick the poetry doldrums, such as going to poetry readings and or writing conferences etc.  I am making my own writing conference tomorrow, creating my own poetry reading.  Wish me luck.


I finished Incarnadine, by Mary Szybist.  It is beautiful.  So here's a poem by her, which is gorgeous, from the Poetry Foundation. 



In Tennessee I Found a Firefly

By Mary Szybist 
     
Flashing in the grass; the mouth of a spider clung   
          to the dark of it: the legs of the spider   
held the tucked wings close,
          held the abdomen still in the midst of calling   
with thrusts of phosphorescent light—

When I am tired of being human, I try to remember
          the two stuck together like burrs. I try to place them   
central in my mind where everything else must
          surround them, must see the burr and the barb of them.   
There is courtship, and there is hunger. I suppose
          there are grips from which even angels cannot fly.   
Even imagined ones. Luciferin, luciferase.
          When I am tired of only touching,
I have my mouth to try to tell you
          what, in your arms, is not erased.




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