Im ok being long forgotten, I wont be here to know. October 11, 2016
I have fine tuned three poems today and finished five pages of How to read a poem by Terry Eagleton. A rather rich book to fully digest adequately, I have decided to devour it would be uncouth. Besides, my brain on a binge, vomits, and what good are words ingested, only to be rebuked by acid?
I noticed today, how each reading, of every poem I have ever written, demands a tweak, pinch or pull. Perhaps that is a sign of inferiority on the part of my ability to write. Then I ponder why I write, why I shoved pen and paper to the far corners of the world for 20 years and even further back in time, spent childhood locked in a yellow room of charm, with imaginary stories, all in my mind. It seems “for my satisfaction” should be good enough and for the kind souls who bother to read, Im indebted. You bring sunshine into a life of darkness. Ok, so perhaps this dark night of my soul stretches to eternity, but I truly am not exaggerating. I have been caught in a bubble tunnel and the skin is unpoppable.
Cheers, J (to be continued)