I’m sitting here at the keyboard while vegetables burn in the kitchen and my poems for this weekend’s readings are rehearsing themselves upstairs. I found myself feeling oddly disheartened about my poetry this week, at the same time that I was picking and rehearsing the poems from my book to read. I found myself thinking that it has been awhile since I wrote one that I felt about as I feel about these.
Fallow field syndrome, I guess. That and work-work bizzyness. Poetry requires a certain kind of dream-time, maybe something sort of like the aboriginal dream-time, or meditative states, or … a cave.
And while I’m fallow-ish, Poetry and as Megalopoet pointed out, Paris Review, those two lit-pillars, are if not toppling, certainly shuddering. Change is unsettling, and icons should only be disturbed once a decade or so.
Follow the fallowness and it will probably turn over, is my guess. As will Poetry and Paris.
Hannah — fallow time has changed to sick time, which often happens with me when I DON’T give myself the fallow time. Other planting metaphors come to mind …
Megalo — thanks for reading the Pedestal review. My head’s still coming down to normal size. I hope Femme au chapeau is a worthy read. Did my best. Now working on another, v-e-r-y slowly.
congrats on your review in pedestal. sounds like a scrumptious read.
“Poetry requires a certain kind of dream-time, maybe something sort of like the aboriginal dream-time, or meditative states, or … a cave.”
Oh, isn’t that the truth! A little “fallow” time is good, though, I think. Somewhere, the mind is mulling what to plant next season. Or something like that….