I ended 2012 and began 2013 on a sour note battling this monstrous flu that has been going around. Being laid up has given me more time than usual to reflect on things. Today was one of my first days out and I went to the Book Court to cheer myself up on a dark day in this dark time of year. I purchased two volumes of Philip Levine poetry. In one is scrawled an autograph by the author, and I thought myself fortunate, but then decided to check it against my 1991 autographed copy of "What Work Is" to compare, which led me to the hiding place for the last birthday card my father ever gave me.
Which leads me here, back to blogging in the New Year. May it be a year of pure poetry.
Of Guldens Spicy on Whole Wheat
I am eating a loaf of bread because
it is a gift from a friend (don't ask)
who advised me never to write again
for all that flowed from my pen
was pain
My words, plucked from the air
like breath
meandering and undisciplined
never exhibit Mercy
at my own expense
and form awkward sentences
which often make no sense
But I love a good
Genoa salami sandwich
because of you and What Work Is
In spite of you, too
I do
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