Now that I seem to have put down permanent roots over at www.awritersalchemy.wordpress.com for my Writers Alchemy blog, I have decided to turn this one over (or back) to One Bad Poem. To read my craft talk, which explains what I'm up to, go to http://awritersalchemy.blogspot.com/2010/05/one-bad-poem-essay-by-bethany-reid-if.html. And happy writing!
To see the announcement for my poetry book, Sparrow, selected by poet Dorianne Laux for the Kenneth and Geraldine Gell Poetry Prize at Writers & Books, go to http://www.wab.org/gell-poetry-prize/gell-prize-2012-winner/
You can find a review by Kathleen Kirk at EIL: http://www.escapeintolife.com/blog/review-of-sparrow-by-bethany-reid/
One of my favorite poems -- I find myself reciting it every morning this time of year as I drive to work.
NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief. So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
One daughter left for NY this morning with her choir (at 4 a.m.). Her twin sister (and I) spent the weekend in the hospital -- emergency appendectomy. It's my spring break between quarters and I have an ever-constant shadow (my poor sickly girl) saying, "What are you doing now?" "Can I go with you?" I go back to teaching full-time on Monday -- three classes beginning at 9 a.m. each morning. What will happen to my morning writing? When will I have time and space to write again? With 80 students writing papers, when will I have time to do anything else?
I open a book, Soul-Kissed by Ann Tremaine Linthorst, and I find this litany I've sometimes heard in church:
All will be well all will be well and all manner of things will be well.
"Punctuation for me is very important, even more important than names. It accounts for the rhythm of a story. A comma left out can mean an entirely different feeling, and one put in can mean disaster, if it doesn't belong there." Eudora Welty
My cramped office, knee-high in papers and books. I pick up a pitchfork and start mucking. The sun bakes the pile down-- fertilizer for some other crop. The world drops out of focus. Now it's just me and the page, this pen. Outside the stable door, my horse paws the ground.