--Are we marooned or have we arrived? Or both? Odysseus thoughts, listening to this episode of On Point that explores the poetry of Derek Walcott, who died a week ago. Interesting to hear one of the guests say that Walcott never finished The Odyssey, but rewrote it anyway.
--My poetry this morning is not likely to be so lofty--I had a vision of giving the stray kitten milk in a saucer from my grandmother's china. My grandmother would be horrified at the thought. She was a shooer of cats, using a broom if necessary.
--And yet, I'm happy to be writing a poem this morning. This week has been one of long days at work, leaving me tired. And yet, it's also the kind of week where I'm grateful to sleep until 3 or 4, not 1 or 2. One of life's mysteries: how can I be so tired yet unable to sleep?
--I read Billy Collins last night before I went to bed. Perhaps that explains the domesticity of my poem. Perhaps all of my poems have transitioned to a domesticity that I don't always recognize.
--My poem ends with the main character reading the poetry of exiles on the porch while the stray kitten laps milk out of the grandmother's china saucer. I was not expecting the bit about the poetry of exiles. I love a poetry writing session where something unexpected noses its way in.
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