Even though I haven’t been writing much, my poetry life feels incredibly busy…as busy as it can be with my other life which often seems like this giant poetry weed killer that sucks it all dry. I enjoyed the craft talk with Raphael Campo a few weeks ago very much, and last night I went to a wonderful reading and sat next to my friend Alex Lemon who has this brilliant new book out and a book opening tonight at The Bryant Lake Bowl. If you happen to live anywhere near this part of the world GO---I will be the girl wearing black leather boots and drinking beer. And Em will be the poor tired girl I dragged along to go with me.
This morning the poetry editors of Milkweed Press, Coffee House Press and Graywolf had an open forum. It was good though lately I feel like sometimes my new work is like building a lightening rod in the middle of a field. It is possible I may get hit by lightening and an editor will notice but it seems to happen to men 10 times more;)
Did you know there’s actually a metal in the male bloodstream which makes this statement completely true? Oh the things I know and have no way to work into a poem.
Right now I am sitting here feeling sorry for myself, which E says is the highest form of laziness. On a side note: the squirrels are eating my bulbs and leaving beautiful yellow stamens on my door step to make me cry. I can’t even kill a squirrel with my bare hands. I lack in all forms of character--- I must use five gallons of coyote urine which supposedly will make them leave me alone.
I've considered bathing in it for the bravery factor but I’m sure the E would leave me.
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Okay -- which metal is it in the male bloodstream? (And don't say iron -- female people have it in their blood too.)
And who says you can't work it into a poem?
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