Some weeks my to-do list starts to resemble an extended session of whack-a-mole. ("Saints and succotash, I thought I was done with this, and this, and OY!" *whackwhackwhack*) At the moment, though, I'm pleased, because I actually managed to draft a poem tonight (as opposed to last night, of which I spent too much hunting for a draft I'd misremembered finishing fifteen months ago, and as opposed to the rest of the week, where the several poems-to-write simmering in the rear of my brain haven't managed the leap to poems-anywhere-near-ready-to-serve).

The trail for this one: marymary pointed to Kimberly L. Becker's Falling Star. I clicked the link to the main journal page, which led to the editor's blog, where she'd posted a poem spark with the instructions Don't overthink and don't try to hunt for the "best" or most complicated word.

It's probably fair to say that I've been thinking a shade too hard about too many things lately, given the surge of relief I felt upon reading those words. Even though they hadn't been addressed directly to me, it felt like I'd just been given permission to play -- which goes to show, I suppose, that sometimes one needs to be told things one already theoretically knows.

Anyhow, I read that about an hour ago. Here's the poem that wanted me to write it:

I tell my guardian demon it is not permitted

to color my meditations another shade of blue --

that's not the kind of reinvention I sought

when I decided I could do far worse than

to dress myself in the gestures of angels

even though I've no intention

of masking the scorch-marks on my palms

from scratching psalms across playground asphalt

with stubs of chalk and stolen gravel chips.

In the future I want to weave for your voice --

one where it pierces the styro-phoned hush

of a thousand cubicle-cocoons, where

your fervor finds a shape for its fire -- not

for rousing the dead or searing fallen seraphs,

no, no -- what I want, my love, is to be your cloak,

the curtain you drape over your head

when your brain has had enough of the world's

insistent ignorance -- and then to be knotted

to your mast, to bloom with the breath of

you letting yourself be moved, to be mighty --

when you've had enough of thinking yourself becalmed.

---

More good things:

Heard back from the New Jersey journal -- the poem did get published (back in 2005), and there's now a contributor's copy on its way to me. Yay!

The Lap Swimmer, a poem by Anna Evans.

Baked country ribs yesterday (sans liquid smoke). Mmm, mmm.

Chamber choir -- we're singing Anders Edenroth's Words next week. I'm beside myself with glee -- this song is so cool! (And so's Run, Run, Run...)

A friend linked to Teapacks earlier this week, as they're coming to Boston. ZOMG - instant earworms.