Poetry. In. Is. Everything. Wrote a piece while standing in line at the Starbucks down the street. What I bring here with me. Last night in class talking about destiny and future, what we will be, how we get there… and blocks to getting that. We are the blocks, often. Or rather, we allow the stalls and falls, the walls that we see and have ourselves sold are there.
No run today. Want to make sure right foot is okay. Hurt a little on run yesterday, but not obtusely or loudly to the point where I had to stop. The heat stopped me, obviously. Can’t think of what to put to page, or what to do with this day. Feel self getting a bit sluggish and deflated from the day-to-day. Not complacent or numb, anesthetized in action, but wondering how to change pattern and habit, here. What…. POETRY. In every bloody thing I see. Thinking of that Plath interview I played for the 1A section, and myself I don’t know how many times, where she said that someone can write about anything with an informed and I think she said free mind. I know what she meant, or I think I do. And my former student Amber, now posting so much about Plath, I’ brought back to origins, initial intentions with my writing life.
Look left, she’s on my shelf, with other literary beacons, instructors. I’m looking to them as to what to do, next. How do I approach today differently than others. HST would say, Just get out there and take a ride, you already got the ticket kid…” Something like that. I can believably hear his voice saying those words, same voice as in one of his interviews.
Wrote quick piece. Haiku. Student messaging me if she has to type her reaction or write extensively in journal. Have to grade that stack as well, the 1B section. Power may go out again today, I’m honestly hoping class is NOT cancelled. Want to write a lecture for today, speak it…. POETRY. In everything.
Goddamnit, get up earlier. If could have two hours of writing before the day even starts….. Do. Not more thinking. Poetry is about thought, NOT. Poetry is about reacting to your immediate scene and sight. Where you are, what you’re perpetuating, actuating. Don’t see myself getting knackered by such a practice, with all I want to do and how I move and how I assume all projects and beats.
Deke myself out of pattern, usual steps and jigs. First no more caviling. Step, celebrate, speak, make a verse of each sitting and step. Think of the reciting at North Light Books, or in Berkeley when in graduate school… quitting prose, and if I do play the paragraph parade it’ll only be free entry, nothing of stoic structure or stance.
Mood gripping me but I’m parrying its kicks. Like Dad said, “At my age, I can’t afford mistakes.” I, yes younger, put self in same mind. The same thinking and philosophy. A kamikaze is ME.