One of *those* weeks. Nothing flowing. Feeling uninspired. Can’t seem to pay attention reading. Can’t seem to string together a coherent thought. There are weeks like that. I’ve learned to chalk them up and just fold the socks. So just a few little snippets today, including something…
…from the archives I was looking for a particular quote last night, and figuring I’d probably shared it here at some point, I searched my olds posts for it. Didn’t find it, but I came across this gem, which, after the dead-endedness of the week, gives me no small measure of comfort. I give you Mary Ruefle:
“I used to think I wrote because there was something I wanted to say. Then I thought, ‘I will continue to write because I have not yet said what I want to say’; but I know now I continue to write because I have not yet heard what I have been listening to.”
Yeeeeessssssssss. From Madness, Rack, and Honey.
on form I’ve been reading (or trying to read) and thinking (or trying to think) about my critical thesis for my MFA program. In a moment of enthusiasm last spring, I decided I’d write about form in free verse poetry. While I am actually really interested in this topic, right now it feels like a brick wall that I’m hitting my head against. This too shall pass. Meanwhile, I’m collecting little bits of what other writers have said about form. Here are a few that I’m particularly fond of:
“If goals create content / stealth creates form” —Fanny Howe (not sure I agree, btw)
“Something that you feel will find its own form.”—Jack Kerouac (also not sure I agree)
Form is “the organization of experience from the manifold of sensation.” —Alice Fulton quoting Kant (this one I can go in for)
“Love buries these ghost forms within us.”—Frank Bidart (now we’re cookin’)
“[W]hatever is said / in the world, or forgotten / or not said, makes a form.”—Robert Creeley (officially in love)
make the words for me Amidst my trying to read, it is always a poem that pulls me in, wakes me up, makes me pay attention. Here’s one that did the job this week: Rachel Hadas’ “Codex Minor.”
I love the richness of the language and images, and how they swirl and eddy around and back on each other. I love the rhymes tucked in here and there. I love the way it begins and unfolds in what seems like a deep psychic space, a quiet interior monologue, and then opens out into, perhaps, a memory(?), at any rate a physical place on the earth, and ends in something spoken, a question no less.
And most of all I love this line: “I have no song, bird. Make the words for me.”
Bird, wherever you are, make the words for me, too.
Thanks for reading. I wish you a clear mind, many poems, and a happy weekend.