Wednesday, August 3, 2016

from Rilke's "Third Elegy"

It is one thing to sing the beloved. Another, alas,
to evoke that hidden, guilty river-god of the blood.

* * *

Red-headed finches whirr back and forth, back and forth, from the lilac tree to the feeder that hangs beside the open window. Last night my son called from Chicago, elated about his new apartment, his new neighborhood, his newfound skill at parallel-parking a panel truck on a city street. I sat next to the cat on the couch and ate a lovely Indian dessert made of thick yogurt and pistachios. I went to bed and tossed and turned all night, dreaming of melodrama. Somehow every incident felt connected.

Perhaps it's because I'm writing again. Over the course of ten days I have finished two poems and a long essay about poetry. I'm steadily copying out the Duino Elegies. I've found a pattern for my time; finally, the ability to work has returned to me.

Today I'll edit a manuscript, and deal with college-financial aid stuff, and tidy the house for the realtor, and take the howling cat to the vet, and go to band practice. But somewhere, in the interstices, I will still be a poet. I cannot tell you why this matters so much, but it does.

* * *

P.S. In case you were wondering, the Amazon review glitch on my Vagabond page has been fixed, which means I can now get teary-eyed over this lovely comment about the book. Such a reader is an amazing gift. Thank you.

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