Anything But Poetry

I have spent most of the day doing anything but work on the poems due today for my (soul-saving) poetry writers group. I spent my day gardening, and organizing boxes of things from the attic, and climbing up and down the attic's drop-down stairs, with its warning sign in Polish: "Uwaga!" cautioning me each direction. Then I took S. to orchestra rehearsal (5-9). Home so late. I ache from all the work of the weekend, and I would like nothing but to collapse.

But I'll stick it out a bit longer. I also started reading a May Sarton journal (begun the year she turned 70), and find myself wanting to quote May Sarton quoting other writers quoting other writers. I suppose if the lineage brings wisdom and comfort or insight or inspiration, why not? I didn't know Sarton before this. I think I shall like her.

And it's true, too, that all of these things (especially weeding before it rained and Sarton) were a type of poetry. work. Now the trick is to believe in myself enough to assemble three or four pieces for my dear and talented friends. When really, I'd just like a glass of wine, a hot bath, and more Sarton or perhaps Bradshaw. Anything but the thing I should be doing, which I feel incapable of doing well. Hence the dishes. And the laundry, first. And taking out the trash. And blogging.

Sarton, looking a bit like one of my grandmothers, in this picture: (photo by Don Cadoret)