The temperature is only 1 below zero here, so much warmer than everywhere else in northern New England. Harmony is 20 below; probably other places are worse.
To top that off, Tom and I both had a terrible night's sleep: I had one hot flash after another, so bad that he finally went downstairs to sleep on the couch, where I could hear him having nightmares. Ugh. The sandman was not our friend.
Anyway, it's day now, and cold. But we have heat and coffee, so that's two checkmarks in the "good" column.
Today I'll be reading chapbook manuscripts and working on class prep and probably going to the grocery store and then late in the afternoon having a phone meeting about ways to publicize my next book because I need all the help I can get. Possibly I'll go out this evening to my poetry salon, though I haven't decided if I'm quite ready to take that step. Omicron levels have dropped precipitously in southern Maine, so likely it will be fine. But it's hard not to be nervous. More to the point, it's easy to be sedentary.
To tell the truth, I've been anxious this week, starting to second-guess the poems in the new collection, worried that, as usual, nobody will read or review the book, that like everything else I've written it will more or less fade into the forgotten. On the one hand, so what? On the other hand, why bother? But neither of those flippant, self-pitying reactions really gets at the heart of the matter . . . which is that a writer in solitude dreams of conversation.
I've been trying to post bits from the book here to make myself take that conversational leap. Though people rarely comment on them, I'm hoping that they occasionally ring a small chime for you.
(If I sound gloomy and self-lacerating, blame it on those all-night hot flashes.)
Disappointed Women
Dawn Potter
They lived in filth. Or were horribly clean.
They piled scrapple onto dark platters.
They poured milk and ignored the phone.
They arranged stones on windowsills.
They filled lists and emptied shelves.
They dyed their hair in the sink.
One stored a Bible in the bathroom.
One hoarded paper in the dining room.
One stared at Lolita and stirred the soup.
When I say emptied I mean they wanted to feel.
When I say filled I mean they wanted to jump.
When I say bathroom, dining room, soup I mean
I washed my hands.
I sat at the table.
I ate what they gave me.
[from Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook Editions, forthcoming)]
5 comments:
HI! I've heard and read this poem before, and I have to say, it hits me like a brick to the head every time. Which is good. So powerful.
Don't doubt the power and frankness, the heart break, and the stony silences in your work. They resonate deeply.
I ALWAYS read each of your poems though I rarely comments. You ARE heard and loved and recognized.
Don't you DARE doubt.
Thanks, friends!
Aging makes me realize my obscurity and my vast importance. I am so afraid to just say what I think. For you, Dawn, to put yourself out there is an act of enormous courage. That matters to me and to many others. It's turned our lives around a little, or a lot. What then we do with your impact makes it go on forever.
When I think of all the people who die every day who meant so much to the world and who won't be remembered far beyond their passings, I grieve. Sometimes I just say the names of those from my past. Mrs. Dembroski, my 8th grade English teacher. Aunt Mafalda. Cousin Mark.
We don't get a real choice. Either we do what is needed and fill our souls as much as possible with that work, or we die bitter.
Despair as you will but never stop writing. Someone is reading.
Ang, I love you. This is a wise, wise comment.
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