not even solitude in mountains

Sometimes my eyes won’t stop counting and everywhere I look the world is made of odd numbers and then an internal narrative starts up in responsive overdrive, flooding sentence fragments of description and allusion. And between the whispershouting of it all — the numbers, the words, the world — I am deafened.

…

Less morosely, April is national poetry month. I am sure there is a T. S. Eliot joke somewhere in this fact but I am too tired to find and deliver. I am sad that I missed the first day, failed to commemorate and post a poem, but maybe it’s a sign that I should not attempt daily poems. I have not, after all, prepared a warehouse of pre-picked poems, and I do not trust serendipity to lead me every day to the necessary gems and masterpieces.  However, if you crave that sort of thing I recommend you go here and sign up for the mailing list. The person who runs it has a nose for great stuff, and few things are as delightful as getting daily poetry without having to go through the trouble of seeking it out for yourself.

~ by feather on April 2, 2008.