Monday, September 8, 2014
I spent four days on a 30-acre pile of rocks off the coast of New Hampshire. From the front porch of the Oceanic Hotel we watched a lightning storm circle the island. A flock of cedar waxwings rose from one of the few trees. Musicians, tucked into corners and side rooms, murmured the words of poets. In other corners and side rooms, poets sang the tunes of musicians. Collaborations buzzed and hummed. Meanwhile, the thunder growled and the lightning flashed.
Not everything was perfect, of course. I sat in on a songwriting workshop and wrote the worst lyrics ever written: a humbling experience and medicine I deserved to taste. She who gives out writing prompts ought to struggle with one herself. On the other hand, I did barter a book of poetry for a massage.