so far, november hasn’t been a month full of poems (though i have been making notes), but it has been a month of clarity and action. i’ll take it.
today was one of those days that you can’t quite believe – a whirlwind, in a good way. it began with an early morning hockey game out in the burbs, but the remainder was downtown. and a whirlwind downtown? just another day, of course: empire state plaza, washington park, occupy albany, two separate strange encounters (one with the albany police and another with a fast food joint) and a birthday for a dead guy (which is an interesting title for a poem: i got dibs!).
lately when people ask me what i like about running, i’ve been leading with this: it helps me practice positive self talk. in no other aspect of my life, am i able to cheer myself on as reliably as when it’s me vs. the road. today, i ran a half marathon with one of my besties, and we killed it — despite pouring rain!
as you know, i’ve been contemplating the light and romance and poetry mojo. they are three of my obsessions. how they ebb and flow. most recently, how they dwindle. i would be hard-pressed to tell you which absence is most disheartening. but i can say that i’ve lived long enough to know that neither light nor poetry really disappear. romance, however? i have little evidence that it persists.
i’ve said out loud to anyone who’ll hear me that a small part of me believes that loss of my poetry mojo is punishment for leaving my marriage. i recognize how foolish it sounds, but i also know people who think it to be the perfect karma. most of me, of course, knows i’ll get the mojo back, and i’m willing to be patient. well, maybe patient’s not quite the right word.
lots of bloggers understandably get excited by the amount of traffic they receive. if my blog had traffic, i would probably get excited, too. instead, it’s strange little things that make me happy, a few very telling anecdotes that provide some order amid the chaos.
a warm august evening on willett street. one of my neighbors asks what i’m reading. before i can answer, his partner tells him, she’s not reading. she’s writing. she’s a poet. i tilt my head as far back as it goes and admire the crooked line against the sky made by roofs of the brownstones and the church on the corner. it is the border between the positive and negative spaces. a metaphor, if ever there were one.