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I’ve discovered that worry is the killer of presence. All day long I’ve been worrying about the dumbest stuff, and now I have no poem to show for it.  I think inspiration is an immediate substance, one that can carry the folds of the past, but that happens now, and worrying is always a future endeavor, and makes us miss all the important moments.

Because of the worry, I think today I’m going to have to write my way into this one. I’m still reading Heaney, and read “From Station Island” today, in which the poet talks a walk with James Joyce’s ghost, who tells him to  “cultivate a work lust / that imagines its haven like your hands at night / dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast.” Um. That’s some pretty strong work-lust, I gotta say. I’m not sure my work-lust is quite there yet.

I do love the Irish for engaging with ghosts, though. It’s a worthy endeavor for poets, I think. I don’t think that I’m going to meet any spirits tonight, but I suppose one never knows.

The other thing I’ve been thinking about tonight is fiber arts. Mostly because I miss my mom.

So, here’s a poem.

The Work of Weavers

You choose the colors and the counts, the yards and the weft,                                                  but what force pushes the pedals? And what guides the shuttle once it’s left your fingertips? Maybe it’s the ghost who ask us                                                                              to write it in wool, weave it in silks, speak them in colors,                                                         to satin in heartstrings,  be a shriek in the thread, twill in the new, to orate geometry. Maybe it’s the work of the weavers to commune with the dead.

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The work-lust is in the trying, right? That is what I’m going for tonight. Happy Monday!

 

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