|Redon's "Homage to Goya"|
And now I don't, not frequently, not daily, and to my loss, because readership notwithstanding, I discovered that writing some assurance--the Google statistics I can consult--my quick jottings were read at least by one person. The sense of contact served to boost my spirits. Most simplistically, it made me happy and set me up for a good day. An hour well spent beats vagrant time (I'm not sure what vagrant time is, but I like the sound of it).
Writing poetry also boosts and antidepresses but in a different way than writing in a blog, in the way stormy weather forebodes and then the storm breaks and there is sunshine, skies blue as the English countryside's (I rely on the Nineteenth Century novel for the shadings of blue).
Breaking that down, my spirits feel heavy, raincloud like. I don't understand it, I never do, I think I'm upset. And then I write a draft and I'm no longer heavy. Like storybook enchantment my intention has to be honest. I can't stage things, can't realize my sadness can be remedied by picking up my pen or laptop. I have to chance on the cure.
Each time it is required I forget what will work and each time I discover it.
I would like to remember in the essential way memory and work collude and start writing here more. Who knows if that will happen but at least there are three drafts of poems and perhaps more on the way. I'm not a pretender in at least one sense. In at least one way, the way of writing poems, I'm a poet.