#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Winter Wetlands

. . . Some poems let go of the handlebars. Some poems crash into trees. Some poems hang on for dear life. But still, the essence—this is the best I can come up with—is the sense of being suddenly uprooted, while still hanging on for dear life.

 I’ve written about this many times. What I think to say keeps changing. What I think to say now is that we are so boxed in by our concepts, our ego, our certainty that things are as they appear, that it takes some sort of radical (by the root) shift to see the awesome space. . . .

~ Fleda Brown, “My Wobbly Bicycle, 208”

Morning Brook

Once again, awake early, without trying. Sunshine from the winter sky. Mood lifting. I walked to the river and there was ice again, but it wasn’t cold, it was pleasant for January. I thought about how I have finished the women artists of the New York School book, finally, and the sadness of a great book, a big immersive one. Last night, I started a new book about an artist, a biography of the sculptor, Everything She Touched: The Life of Ruth Asawa.. It’s a gorgeous book. I listened to podcast news, instead of the Plath biography on my walk because there is so much momentous new right now. I was pleased to get an e-mail today about my recent publication, First Artists, that it has been selected as the editor’s choice piece to feature, so they asked me to make a recording of myself reading the poem. Ah. Reading the poem to myself on video. Not easy. But I did it as best I could. In about 10 takes! And, still wasn't satisfied, but knew I was unlikely to do better. I walked again, after dinner, in the dark, to see the stars in a clear winter sky and end the day with cold cheeks and gratitude.