Laura, the beloved muse of Petrarch died today in 1348 while mine lives not yet fully as I am living, but getting there.
at the moment I am listening to the incomparable Ana Vidovic, playing Torroba classically on a specific made guitar. These are fingers that I love to listen to, strings that squeeze my own heart.
there are other comments that go here and later I will place them in another post, or even here, who knows, I wanted to reach out with this now before I start my first busy day that is filled withsomethingotherthan writing.
speaking of which, I am becoming amazed at my daily output lately. First I write here, then work on my stories, poems and such - at night I write in my journal. Now, anyone can do these things but I never allow myself to write without concentration and intention. Also, my journal entries would fill 3-4 pages typewritten. I apparently have a lot to say.
everything here is related.
a poem not about E.E. Cummings
Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
painfully beautiful;
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.
so many,
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now
insignificant.
never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirer
that was E.E. Cummings.- Hoc Scripsi
I'm glad that you're writing every day. So easy to get distracted by daily life.
ReplyDeleteit is best to stay in practice and now that I have a book coming out at summers end I'll need to uphold that and stay worthy of publication.
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on your new book!
ReplyDelete