I had been trying to post more regularly – and have now proceeded not to post for a week and a half. I’m sure that isn’t a shock to regular readers. As much as I hope to create a even a semblance of a schedule, I haven’t managed to get there yet.
Even though I haven’t been posting here, I’ve been doing a bit of writing. A letter to the editor at NCR online. A short piece that may appear as a Small Earth Story at NCR. A bio to accompany a poem that is going to be published soon. This will be in the mini-anthology that will be a companion to the winning chapbook from QuillsEdge Press; all the finalists will have a poem printed. This was also exciting because I had to approve the proof and sign a contract. It was a needed reminder that I am still a poet, even though I haven’t published much lately – or even submitted. Maybe, after the first of the year, I can concentrate on a revised version of the chapbook to send out…
I don’t have a choir with which to sing on a regular basis this fall, but have sung with the combined music ministry at church for three funerals over the last three weeks. All the funerals have been for family members of music ministers, the last being the brother of my friend, who has been director of music for decades. Sadly, she has had to play and direct for the funerals of both her parents and, now, her eldest brother. Another staff member described it as “her last gift to him.” Perhaps that, along with her professionalism and faith, is the way she can manage to keep her focus in such difficult circumstances.
At the luncheon after the funeral, I was sitting with people who I met years ago at our former parish. It’s been fourteen years since we were all together there. Even after so much time belonging to other parishes, we still miss it.
That our sense of connection remains strong is a testament to how special and loving the community was. It had a part in forming our identities and that is a lasting gift.
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How very nice to have a reminder that you are “still a poet.” I love that.
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It’s odd. Early on in my adult poetry life, I read an article where a young man with an MFA, publications, and editorship was bemoaning that he couldn’t call himself a poet because he wasn’t starving and suffering for his art. (shades of La Boheme) At that point, I hadn’t had my first journal publication, but felt like I could call myself a poet. After these last years of only being able to write or edit intermittently, it has become more difficult. There has been a lot of suffering going on, although not for art. Still, life does inform art. When I’ve had a chance to write, I’ve been able to do good work. When I get to a point where I have better control over my time, I do hope that I can be a better poet than I was before all this.
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