Tuesday, January 5, 2010


Today is Yogananda's birthday.
I didn't go out yesterday because I thought it was too cold. Today I opened the shades to find the window coated with thick frost. I know my knees will complain but I must get out today. That will be after the TV repair person comes and goes.
In the midst of poems, short stories, manuscripts of novels and letters Mae Sarton's refrigerator broke down! A repair man was called and she apparently couldn't leave him alone with his work but "talked with him". So her day was seriously interrupted again. But the writer interrupted does not necessarily dead-end. Perhaps to be interrupted is to be invited to detour. Perhaps such a deviation from our plans will enrich our day with an unscheduled adventure.
"A small child within you remembers: so these, these were the 'golden mountains'." Marilyn Chin. How many have arrived at their Eden, their promised land of milk and honey, only to realize they'd been betrayed? There they hunger in sorrow and die spiritually starved.
Today I will walk with a poem. Standing close we will commune and conceive a bundle of words. I will carry the poem until it ripens. It will burst upon the page. It's tiny spark will add itself to the great blaze of poems being birthed around the world today. Poets will nurture the new creations. They will grow strong together and stumble into the public arena. They will present themselves for ridicule or praise. Perhaps among the sour fruit one perfect rose will be found. We will carry the flower home, tear the petals free and feed ourselves to write again.
Mary O. "Understand, I am always trying to figure out what the soul is, and where hidden, and what shape."

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