The new Florida Review is out. My poem "Thievery" is in it. I'm very pleased.
All my little chickens have roosted for the long night.
Translation: I have no poems out. I haven't written any new ones since June.
Defense: I've been thinking about quilts. And quilting. I've been quilting, and also thinking about quilts.
Self-encouragement: Making quilts is just another way of making poems.
Self-doubt: I lack maybe three poems to finish my new manuscript. I think I know what poems they are (rather, I sense them in the room and can almost imagine their becoming). What if I can't write them?
Unrelated lingering image: For the past couple of weeks, in a low-lying cornfield just outside town, we've spotted several wild turkeys. At first they were easy to spot against the snow, eight or nine humped figures shaped like dark Amish bonnets, and I thought: crones. Now the snow's all melted--the fields are so muddy, it might as well be March--and they're harder to spot. But Randy saw them yesterday in the same field. Old ones. Almost a coven.
Return to the issue at hand: I'm okay with not writing poems for now. Ideas and phrases are bumping around in my head. Last month, for instance, I read Chris Forhan's poem "Dream: Obedience" in the summer Laurel Review and had to jot down this line:
Some boys won't go willingly. I will.
I think it wants to be a villanelle.
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