GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. Wallace Stevens. There is no kryptonite that stops him from healing my heart. He makes me think, and his music satisfies my ear. Sonority, resonance--he sustains me.
2. Elizabeth Bishop. Qualification, exaggeration, restatement--she helps me see. She lets me know that form is to be mastered, not just followed.
3. Marianne Moore. Syllabics stun me--she lets me play. She indulges my perusal of weird atlases and pursuit of Bakelite bracelets and hats, knowing there's a guide. (I wish she'd gotten to name the Edsel).
4. Frank O'Hara. He lets me know it's okay to love language, that the vernacular isn't verboten. (And sometimes, just sometimes, it's okay to flaunt your vocabulary).
5. Tennyson. After many a summer dies the swan. He teaches me everything I need to know about torquing the sentence into a line.
DREAM: I have written a poem about a cashmere sweater, and it is my best poem ever. I surely hope so. It's posted on billboards; the London Times sends me flowers and asks to publish it; John Cusack is so stunned by its greatness that he takes me out for calamari.
REALITY: I drafted the poem. It's not my best poem ever. I, however, will accept Mr. Cusack's invitation for calamari at any time.
2 comments:
And I've heard it said Mr. Cuasck is very determined when it comes to calamari. Very persuasive.
Put a note on the door so they know to leave the flowers if you're not home.
Thanks, Marylinn! Your post has me laughing.
And scribbling a note for my front door.
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