I have a new poem up at Vox Populi--a longish piece titled "A Listener Sends Six Letters to God, in Autumn." I wrote it last fall, and now here it is this fall, reminding me of the way in which this season always makes me linger and listen along the water's edge.
Last night I went up to Hallowell for a really sweet reading: happy to see friends in the audience, to visit with my co-reader friend Adrian Blevins, but also realizing I hadn't driven on the highway at night for quite a long time . . . probably since I stopped going up north for band practices. I can't say I miss that part of the project.
Today, though, I magically slept an hour over cat-time, and later Tom and I are going to a library sale, and then I'll set up my new compost bin, and also maybe make an apple pie, and definitely make chicken soup. For some reason I feel in need of the pleasures of the weekend, maybe because I know I've got to travel on Monday.
I'm reading William Trevor's Last Stories and of course Dante is always on my mind. Regret and loss: The autumn tales.
4 comments:
That poem, Dawn.
I hear Rilke, I hear that lovely collection by Maurice Manning titled Bucolics, I hear Milton, I hear history, music, and most of all, I hear the artist's plaint.
Thank you.
Yes -- I am currently reading Annie Dillard's "Teaching a Stone to Talk." The poem makes a fitting partner to her essays.
Thank you both so much--
Dawn, I loved the letters to god. Sent it far and wide. Just lovely, heartbreaking, heart-healing. I'm grateful for it.
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