#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
I wake up to sunshine, later than usual, which is a pleasure. Frank is long gone. In my inbox is a short prose piece by one of my Wednesday writers. We are having our end of season open readings Sunday night, and she wants feedback on the story she’s presenting. Last night, too, another one of the writers asked the same, and so I spend some time commenting and offering suggestions. Strong pieces, developed in our workshop. A busy, writing filled weekend for me. I am attending a weekend poetry workshop with Natalie Shapero in Brookline – two afternoons, today and tomorrow. I love the richness of all this poetry, prose and craft pressed into this weekend. And I have time for my walk first. My son is in the kitchen; we’re the only ones home and, as a treat, I offer to make him breakfast and he accepts. Four eggs, scrambled with spinach and onions and cheese and a biscuit with strawberry jam and pancakes with maple syrup, and then I take my walk, grateful for sunshine after rain, and the woods are wet, the soil is soaked, the grass seed we’ve thrown in the yard in spots is growing, the flowers I’ve planted are healthy. Milkweed is blooming in the meadow and along the railroad tracks. Before I leave for my workshop I slightly tweak the poem I’ve prepared and then print. The workshop is focusing on using allusions in poems; my poem is successful, and I get some helpful feedback. Mostly, it seems strong, seems to be working. Now, the challenging part: we have a new poem due for tomorrow. I have some ideas. What I don’t see clearly tonight is how I will have time to have anything ready by afternoon. Tonight my youngest is home, at last, and we have a lovely dinner outside on the deck, learning all about her trip. Then we walk across the field to the river, the benches, so she can see what’s new. I am appreciating working with Natalie, her workshop style. I like the the way she frames questions for the poet about the poem, what to consider and why. For tomorrow, we are to write about something we do not know. I will sleep on it.
“Where can the dead hope
to stash some part
of themselves, if not in the living?
And so when I had a daughter,
I gave her your name.
She does not use it. . . ”
Read Natalie’s entire poem here.
