I finished a poem yesterday, and it felt good, different. It's the first poem I've finished in a few months. I'm a slow writer, slow to hold onto an idea, slow to let go.
It came from two assignments: one from friends that I will keep private, and one from my teacher, which was write a poem in the form of a list. It was shorter but felt complete, whole, like a dried flower--pretty to look at, but biting if you crept closer and touched, strung with nettles.
One of the things I envy about art, or more specifically, crafts, is the tactile nature, how artists can get on a streak, how they can make a series of related things: re-colored flags, or tables from wine casks (I want one of those, by the way).
I'm not sure what my token would be. Most of my poems are sharp, dealing with bad love, bodily violence. I would like to be more subtle, like this new poem, like those ginger candies I love so much, warm from my pocket, wasabi, a smooth poison.
Here I am in the unheated house in a man's flannel shirt and my old tight jeans. My two manuscripts feel messy and ignored. I need to stitch them together.
Only the pure in heart can make a good soup.--Beethoven.
I read this quote recently and it comforts me. Roast is daunting, lamb chops, turkey, but I can bake a good pie. And I can make the best soup you have ever had.
I wanted to be the woman that came up with pure perfection, a crystal drop, a stone heart, a pendant, a soul.
Instead, it seems, I have a handful; I'm not really sure what I have here in my pockets: acorns and ginger and thread and a needle, what I will do. I can't wait to be older and look back and think, these were my titles: Lot of my Sister, and ?, and ?, and ?, and ?.
There is my life's work. There is it. I cannot wait to do it.