Poetry of Exiles and Domesticity

--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.