Monday, April 7, 2014

Sufficient Unto The Day Is The Evil Thereof

Really sick today. Need some of the above. Left work early, and I don't know how I'll finish up. But I am keeping to my one-a-day pledge. Where are my priorities? How dare I write poems when I should be working for the Man. And if I have any time left, I should be serving someone. Who do I think I am?

But the truth is, poems are short, and this took about 10 minutes and likely shows it. I took the first words down the page of a book by the bed and shuffled them around.

I started writing poems instead of fiction because they're short. I could write them on scraps or on my phone while my child was playing, and no one would be the wiser. I hardly ever rewrite or revise, and I usually take about 10 or 20 minutes to write anything. Part of this is being an impatient, careless person, and part of it is having only scraps of time to work with. There are a lot of us in the same boat.

Bordering the island, we made fast the preserve,
While eight gazed in such short formation,
Mobile but straight on this side. From
The deserted city to the cold brook wheel,
Gone, run down the blue winter road.

Image: Culpepper. British and from the wrong century, but rights-free.

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