Wrote more poetry during my 7.5 hours of work today than I have in years, in that kind of timespan. Thanks to Ms. Plath. I’m immeasurably inspired. Hoping to finally reconnect with running habits, tomorrow. Going to start with five miles, then see how I feel after that. Brought home some of that single-vineyard ’10 Cab that I like. Tonight’s plan, more poetry. Hopefully type some of what I wrote today, get started on the second chapbook. Which I’m thinking will be all poetry, verse. Have to see how I feel. And right now, honestly.. I don’t feel like writing. Is that Literary, that divulgence? Need a beer…
8:10pm. With that beer, and in better function. Did two punchdown sets: early A.M. (or relatively early, just before 10am), then after work, separating from group as they all walked to their cars. I notice the wine, the grapes in those open-top barrels, changing.
9:07pm. Glass of Cab, ready to dive into verse. Only allowing a few more words here with blog. Need to find a spoken word reading, somewhere here in Sonoma County, but close, preferably Sebastopol, or Santa Rosa of course.. Windsor, maybe Healdsburg. That’s just what I should do: take these lines, rhymes, to battle, before they’re bottled, booked. But how should I start? Don’t think about it, just write. How many times do I have to go over this. What would Plath suggest? Judging by her character, what I’ve seen thus far, with the research I’ve done for English 5.. she’d just write. Journal about it extensively, propel a couple poems.
I’m always wishing for the Road– maybe I should just take to the Road, starting with roads near by. Poetry, the only vehicle for me, for such. Motivated to the point of this Cab being unable to slow me even slightly.
put pages in poem
purse, liquidate this misfit
This blog, NOW the journal of a poet, one writing for his life. Leaving the blog’s header, containing ‘wine blog’. Want readers to know where I started. NOW, this is all for verse, the spoken sentiments.. the daring in ME.
Cabernet, opened yesterday, ordering word play. Like its structure, flavored sentences. Remembering what one of my former coworkers at AV Winery said, about me talking about the wines as I do: “The way you talk about the wines, it’s an experience.” Not patting Self, on back or anywhere, but it just made me smile, that my words were recognized. And I don’t even seek “recognition.” I just ask for a little time. Then do what you will, reader.. or listener.
Another memory: Years ago, at a winery party Mom and Dad hosted, Dad introducing me to one of their friends as “a poet.” Dad said, “…no, HE’S the poet…” Can’t remember the context, but to hear Dad say this only encouraged and reassured me. He and Mom had, and have, always supported every Literary effort, endeavor. I just remember this dialogue, from Dad, holding formidable form. It still does.
Why am I having these realizations at this old age? 34.