. . . was apparently not calling. Started raining in earnest the moment I pulled out my sneakers. Figures. Taking a break from grading. It seems to be a good day for reading and drinking tea. Buddha keeps telling me "hello" and then the conversation sort of ends there.
In poetical news, I think I may have written my first prose poem. Perhaps. I don't know. It's a revision from a rather verbose poem and it seemed it would work better as a prose poem. I added a lot. I am always so wary of the new things I try. It seems sort of odd with my personality that I am so stubborn on certain things and yet so liberal with others. Had a student bring in a Frost book of poems the other day, and I bet my disdain was clearly written in a flashing neon sign above my head. (Yes, I know. I am one of those poets who find more interest in Frost's morbid life than in his poetry. I reserve the right to change this opinion in the future, of course.)
I may change the poem back into lines. . . although perhaps not. I don't know. I think I am daunted at the idea of revising the poem again when in this form. I base so many of my revisions upon the line break. This will be more a rhythm/flow sort of deal. The train of thought. . .
Roughly three weeks left in the semester. Then I am set loose upon all those lovely books piled in three stacks on my dining room table. And writing. Ah, writing.
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