Writers must be germy types. Two days of shaking hands and leafing through books have left me achy and throat-tickly. Although it could be hot day/cold night flip flop. Although it could be the french fry diet. Although it could be bad sleep punctuated with another 7 poets, another 5 poets, another 8 poets.
The cavalcade of readings at the end of Alden Nowlan festival revealed that gender, age and race are not the only subsets you can use to divvy up the poets of the world... we have the superfast/nervous readers... the supersoft/eyes-always-down readers... the make-a-joke-or-two-in-the-intro-then-get-super-serious readers... the high-pitch-high-volume-to-low-pitch-low-volume readers... and so on.
It was good to see Matt, Steve, Shane and Sue, and to meet Charmaine. It was also a little bit of ego-rattle to see everyone doing such excellent work when I've been so absent from this world for the last few years. Still... much pride for my peeps.
The work part of the day is ending. That has to be a good thing. I get to see M. in a bit. That is is is a good thing.
I want my head to work right again.
I want words that soothe bruises.
I want to do what I know I can do... until it's all done... and for the right reasons.
yes.
1 comment:
Eric, speaking of poetry, I love that line: "I want words that soothe bruises."
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