Poems

Frustrations in this season of life.

I’ve started some poems, but haven’t had the time to rewrite, edit, or finish any of them.

I have a few poems that were nearly finished a long time ago and which have sat moldering for the proper amount of time. The proper amount of time varies depending on the poem. I may be able to publish some of those.

Sending out submissions is impossible right now. Too many steps. Too much thinking. Too much wading through “The elemental journey is a transit through the subconcious that antagonizes the eschaton. Show us your bivavlery, your whimsy, your stretch into zodiac. Surprise us, amaze us, make us weep tears of reflective joy. P.S. We favor marginalized communities in our publishing, in particular left-handed whale-scented underprivelged candidates who’ve run out of money to attend the Iowa Writers’ Workshop for a seventh time.”

Most poetry publications do not pay anything at all. Some have “reading fees.” You pay them to submit your poems. Yes, this is an actual thing.

I will resume submitting work at some point, but today is not that day.

A poem is rarely completely finished. Even if it reaches publication in a real, actual book, it continues to change as each person reads it. If a poem can’t be digested by many readers, it’s failed at one of the things poetry is for.

Poetry can do lots of things.

But poetry that tries really hard usually fails.

One thing poetry shouldn’t do is frustrate or alienate people.

Sometimes, out in the garden, I’ll think of something I’d like to write about, but then it’s time to quit the weeding, put away the tools, shower and heat up dinner, and oh, I forgot to refill the cat’s feeding toys, and there’s a load of laundry that’s been sitting in the machine for two days.

I probably need a pocket notebook.

I have too many notebooks.

The next notebook—or pen— is the one that will cure every writing ill that afflicts me.

I just clicked back to this tab from a tab where I am shopping for a new notebook.

Now it is time to heat up dinner and I can’t write any more.

I hate the metaphor “season of life” with the rage of a thousand burning suns.

Maybe I’ll write a poem about that.

The discbound notebook on the bottom there really does work well for poetry writing, which in my case requires copying a poem over many times as I edit it, the previous version visible in front of me. But I need a system for not losing what I think of when I am away from my big notebook or my desk, and no, I will not put scraps of poems into my phone. That ruins them immediately. Once a poem is in print, even if on a screen, it becomes very resistant to changes, even if it’s not finished yet.

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“Whale-scented. That’s very funny, Lady of the House.” I’m so glad you like my jokes, Whitsun!

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