Saturday, July 17, 2010

Summer Writing Festival, Iowa City
At the end of a day spent in class with a pro poet as teacher and real poets as classmates, I am convinced I can't do this any more---can't do poetry any more. I have edited and revised this little poem out of recognition. Homework for tonight is to try putting the last stanza first and play with the order of the other stanzas. Or, line by line, change the theme to its opposite--like "steam bath out there" to "a fresh evening out there." I just don't know. I'm sour and tired, hot and hungry, and I'd like to ignore my own curiosity. Should I take this little guy out to play? He is stretching as if preparing for a run around the track--whether I come or not. "No!" I say, and then take a picture of this untidy piece I had so lovingly created once upon a time. Now, I'm being hounded with pity mixed with courage and just a taste of saltiness. I don't know. I just don't know.

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