I finished an editorial project on Friday, so next week I'll have a few days to call my own. I think I'll spend some of that time rethinking the order of my newest poetry and essay manuscripts. I think I'll also spend some of that time listening to music. I think a wash of sound may help me solve some of my manuscript questions, especially as regards the poetry collection.
Lately, among many other books, I've been reading the Aeneid. Poems like this make me ask why I even bother to try to read new poetry . . . let alone write it.
the sky and the earth and the flowing fields of the sea,
the shining orb of the moon and the Titan sun, the stars:
an inner spirit feeds them, coursing through all their limbs,
mind stirs the mass and their fusion brings the world to birth.
From their union springs the human race and the wild beasts,
the winged lives of birds and the wondrous monsters bred
below the glistening surface of the sea. The seeds of life--
fiery is their force, divine their birth, but they
are weighed down by the bodies' ills or dulled
by earthly limbs and flesh that's born for death.
That is the source of all men's fears and longings,
joys and sorrows, nor can they see the heavens' light,
shut up in the body's tomb, a prison dark and deep.
[translated by Robert Fagles]