Poems, even great ones, even glorious ones, even ones I don't understand--I can still imagine writing them. I read a few lines from Milton's Paradise Lost or Pound's Cantos or Plath's Ariel, and somehow I'm standing alongside that writer, as if I am a word, or a peculiar sound, or an image.
I don't even like Pound's Cantos, but I can still feel that way when I read them.
But novels? Somehow I'm always outside looking in. I can see how the writer is doing the job, but I'm never in there doing the job with him.
Meanwhile, I love the novel form, and I read fiction constantly, whereas I read poetry only sporadically.
I think this is all very strange, and requires more thought.
Dessert tonight: Ricotta cheesecake with strawberry sauce. Plans for dinner are far more hazy, but I suppose I'll eventually have decide on something.