First evening fire of the season, amid all the comforts of home: a balm at summer's end, a beacon on winter nights. In the lexicon of homesteading, there are few things more satisfying than the knowledge that the wood is stacked and covered and will last till spring. All of ours is stowed neatly in the basement, within dry and easy reach during snowstorms. We've got plenty of kindling and paper starter. The new green logs are outside, tarped and curing. Only a shelf filled with canned tomatoes would give me the same kind of farmwife frisson--but, alas, my jars are empty. I just don't have the quantity to fill a canner, so I settle for second-best and sauce them for the freezer.

Today, on the last day of September, I am sitting in my accustomed couch corner, in my accustomed red bathrobe, holding my white cup-and-saucer of black coffee, and feeling extremely grateful to be here. Things are going well in Vermont; everyone is holding up and--finally--beginning to relax into optimism. I don't need to feel guilty about coming home, and I am not feeling guilty. I spent much of yesterday catching up on piles of laundry, cleaning floors, and dealing with my harvest: making tomato sauce, freezing green beans, picking broccoli and peppers. I made a big vegetable gratin for dinner and a sour cherry flan for dessert. I fiddled with some class marketing and planning, both for the Frost Place and for a possible Monson Arts day-long session for vaxxed high schoolers. I read books, and I talked on the phone to Paul, and I looked forward to Tom's arrival home from work.

Today I've got bathrooms to clean, grass to mow, garden clean-out to begin . . . but mostly I need to reinsert myself into my poet mind. I'm going to sit down with the Iliad and then turn to some of my own recent drafts; and whether I end up actually writing or not, I will at least know that I've given the work its due space and attention. As Donald Hall reminded me, when I was reading his essays in Seasons on Eagle Pond, I am a poet who frames her life with the agricultural seasons. I am not a farmer who moonlights as a poet on winter nights. It's important to recognize which vocation is my true one.

I write to you from the extreme comfort of my own shabby couch. I can't tell you how glad I am to be home again with my husband and my little habits. I have so much to catch up on here--housework, garden work, desk work--but yesterday afternoon I lolled and then Tom took me out to dinner, and this morning I feel ready to get back at it.

The best news, of course, is that my mom is doing very well. I left her with a number of pre-made meals; caught up on my parents' housework and laundry and a few necessary big jobs, like cleaning out the freezer; helped my dad cope with his anxiety; and was able to spell my sister, who lives locally so has been carrying the weight. A 24/7 job, but now they're ready to move forward into their own routine. So, success! I feel very fortunate that my sister and I are close and don't squabble or disagree about what needs to be done and what we each need to contribute to make that happen. And I also feel fortunate that my parents trust us to help them even as they want to be independent.

I've got lots to do around here, but I'm going to let myself dawdle through it. Having just spent the last week as a live-in housekeeper and invalid nurse, I feel I have the right to take plenty of reading and tea breaks, go for an ambling walk, and allow myself to enjoy hanging around in my own space without obsessively focusing on obligations. Not that the chores don't need to get done, but why all at once?

I barely had a chance to read a book while I was away, though I did take Sunday afternoon off and teach my chapbook class in my sister's basement while she assumed my housekeeper duties. It was the most relaxing three-hours in my entire stay: sitting around with six smart people; throwing in a word now and again, as the others talked and thought about a variety of manuscript experiments.

Today, among my other tasks, I'm going to work on a Part 2 scenario for this class: what are some next steps in thinking about manuscript creation, and how can I construct a useful session for this particular group, which has learned to work so well together over the course of the past three weeks?

Good morning from Vermont.

Inside the wall above my bed a mouse is running up and down, up and down, squeaking and scrabbling. Outside, in the distance, a barred owl is crying Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you? 

Life is trudging along here. I cook and clean, and occasionally I read a page from a book. But today will be a change: at noon I'll haul my zoom studio stuff to my sister's house, and I'll teach my chapbook class from there, while she takes my place here and spells me for dinner prep. This will practically be a vacation.

I'm hoping that recovery will advance faster this week. On the phone last night I was feeling so homesick for Tom. This is a hard job I'm doing, in more ways than one.

A better night last night: everyone slept well, thank goodness, and today I'll be processing corn with my dad and otherwise keeping up with house chores. My mom is making great process, and spirits are high. She's got a long road to full recovery, but I think by some point next week my parents should be able to manage here by themselves.

Unfortunately last night I received the terrible news that a poet colleague, Kamilah Aisha Moon, has suddenly died. Rumors are that it was Covid-related, but I don't know for sure. Aisha taught for me at the Frost Place and was a dear friend and support to many. This is a terrible loss, and so many of us are reeling.

Hard times, hard times.

Hello, everyone! Just a quick check-in to let you know that my mom's surgery went really well and we're all hanging in as she recovers. My time is definitely not my own, and also I've gotten almost no sleep, but maybe tomorrow I'll have the wherewithal to write a real letter to you. Adieu till then--

Today will be my last day at home for a while. I'm not sure how long I'll be in Vermont--maybe home as early as Saturday, but possibly away for a week or so. You won't hear from me here tomorrow morning, as I'll be up and driving by dawn, but I'm hoping that I can fall into a more regular blog schedule once I get settled.

I'll spend much of today trying to get garden and house things done so Tom doesn't have to shoulder too many of my chores while he's a temporary bachelor. The garden is complicated as things will still need harvesting, but I think I've got the peppers under control, the tomatoes are winding down, and many of the fall crops can just sit and grow till I get back. So today: laundry and floors, packing and lawn mowing, and making lots of lists for myself and for Tom. I've got to bring my Zoom setup with me, plus a portable mattress, plus books, plus work clothes and teaching clothes . . . it's a good thing I'll be alone in the car so I'll have room for this ridiculous amount of stuff.

Yesterday I sat in on a friend's poetry class to talk about how I handle stanza breaks, line breaks, and other kinds of white space in my poems, and it was a really enjoyable experience. Such a friendly class, and I do have fun trying to figure out how to explain myself.

In the meantime, people have been signing up for the Frost Place Studio Session classes! As of this morning, there's only one space left on the reserve list for the the December chapbook class. Please let me know as soon as possible if you're interested in that final chapbook spot. The Homer class is now three-quarters full, so you might want to act quickly on that one as well.

I'd like to think I'll be doing a little bit of revision work today, as this might be my last chance for the foreseeable future. But if I don't, I don't. I'm not going to beat myself up about what I can't accomplish. I'm still reading--I'm always reading--and that's the big thing. I'll bring along Thackeray's Vanity Fair, the Iliad, Alice Oswald's collection Falling Awake, a New Yorker issue on food writing, and undoubtedly a few other books that I won't be able to leave behind.

Another cool morning. It won't be long till I'm lighting fires in the wood stove, so it's a good thing that we (Tom mostly) finally got the new firewood stacked and tucked away for the winter. I accomplished less homestead-wise than I meant to yesterday, mostly because the phone would not stop ringing and then I fell down a "how do I make a newsletter about my upcoming workshops?" rabbit hole. I did in fact figure out how to make a newsletter, but I also had to make a mailing list to go along with it, so that was a lot of time and trouble . . . good trouble, because now the job is done, but it didn't get any bathrooms cleaned or wood stacked.

Anyway, the newsletter turned out to be a good idea. Already, several people have signed up for classes; clearly, taking the time to broadcast them was more important than vacuuming. (As you can tell, I am not a natural-born marketer.) I'll paste a copy of the newsletter to the bottom of this letter, in case you're interested in seeing it or maybe even registering for a session.

Today I'll need to buckle down and actually do housework and go grocery shopping and pick vegetables and such. Mid-afternoon, I'm making a guest appearance in my friend Bruce's poetry class, to talk about how I manage white space in my poems.

I'm trying hard to juggle everything before I leave for Vermont on Thursday. Probably I should worry a little less, let myself coast a bit. At least that's the advice I'd give you.

* * *

Dawn Potter

Upcoming poetry workshops

Fall 2021

Dear friends--

Frost Place Studio Session classes are open for business! This is a new venture at the Frost Place--an offering of online classes, year round--and I’m excited to have been named creative director of the project. 

Our first classes are already in progress. I’m currently finishing up a 3-session introductory chapbook seminar, which filled so quickly that we’re considering  running a second class in December. Here’s a link to the description of the current class. December dates would be Sunday afternoons on 12/5, 12/12, and 12/19, 1-4 p.m., via Zoom. Participation is limited to 6 people, so if you’re interested in attending, please email me ASAP, and I’ll add you to the reservation list.

In November, I’ll  be leading a weekend-long generative writing class, “Revisiting Homer’s Odyssey,” centering around passages from Emily Wilson’s new translation of the epic. This will be held on Zoom, 11/13 and 11/14. Applications are open, with a participant cap of 12,  and already the class is half full. This session is open to writers at any level, so please join us for an intense and collegial weekend of poetry and conversation.

Stay tuned for more Studio Session offerings in 2022! Upcoming classes will include generative writing weekends centering around the work of some of Poland’s greatest 20th-century poets as well as an immersion into the poetry of New York City. In the pipeline are revision workshops, a seminar on comedy in poems, a one-day class for people new to poetry, teacher roundtables, sessions with guest faculty, and so much more.

As I design these classes, I am always open to suggestions for topics and faculty. Please be in touch!

I’m so looking forward to spending time with you and your poems--

 

With affection,

Dawn