How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter?
—Woody Allen

I wrote poetry today. Yay!

But I need to let it settle for a little while. I'm also re-drafting a poem that I thought didn't need it when first it was written, but now that I look at it... yes, it does. Good thing I kept the first draft, which really is not that much different in look from its present shape, but I can tell something's off. So, back I go.

Here are the best lines from today's labours, a poem titled, provisionally perhaps, 'Seph tells Dee':

don't pick them before they're ready to be eased
by gravity, crumpling into the ground

Oh, it feels good to be writing a poem. It makes sense. The world mutes itself into the background, and the light and the words and the mood come shyly, then strongly forward, and I take my pen and set it all down as best I can.

The poem was catalysed by Mike Snider's Jan 27th entry and so I say, blushingly, it is a sonnet, although I use that word roughly.

In fact, I may have pushed it around a bit. Maybe it's now a bruised meta-sonnet, or a pseudo-sonnet, or even a sonnet a lá pomo. Who knows? But it was fun, anyway.

In America, only the successful writer is important, in France, all writers are important, in England, no writer is important, and in Australia you have to explain what a writer is.
—Geoffrey Cottrell

I'm not sure who Cottrell is, but it rings true to me.

Please take your mouse in hand and click over to Lois's Heart @ Work, where I am today's guest blogger, waxing (somewhat) eloquent on why I blog, adding to an already varied collection of thoughts and ideas.

I am so pleased with Lois's introduction. When she writes that she felt my site to be ...

sobering and comforting all at once, for she wrestles with the reality of how hard it can be to be a writer

... I find myself thinking, Thank goodness! I must be on the right track.

Thanks to Anita for recommending me for the series.