January O’Neil’s Confession Tuesday post inspired me to post this one. I wrote it long ago, in my head, about to fall asleep one night. I thought I’d remember.
The night persuades me I’ll remember. Every time. Sleep, says the night. Sleep.
I confess I enjoy reading Sylvia Plath. I think she gets treated as the angst-ridden teenager’s poet too often. I’ve always admired the powerful diction in The Edge.
Although this next poet I mention does not currently get accused of writing only for angst-ridden teens, I read this poem by Kelli Russell Agodon at The Rumpus and wanted to read it a second time.
I’m not quite done confessing.
One day, I said I’d never write a sonnet. Many times, I said I’d never write a sonnet. This not-writing-a-sonnet became a reality for many years. I did try. I did write many Bad Sonnets. Who knows what happened next? I injected some Edna St. Vincent Millay and drank some Shakespeare. I wrote a sonnet. I wrote another sonnet.
What happens when you fill up your brain with good food and that food is named Shakespeare or Keats or Millay or Dickinson? What happens when you say, I could never do that? For me, my brain starts to prove me wrong. Is this conscious? Not really. I can’t say what it is, and I’ve never examined this oddity of how my brain works until today. Isn’t that what makes this partly a confession? Give me something I can’t do. My brain will do it. I am not even a participant in this process. I stand back and let the brain do its work.
I wanted to embed this video of Kasey Chambers singing a song, but embedding had been disabled. Why would someone not want to let others share her music via YouTube when it would only promote her work? I decided not to share the link either. I wanted. to. embed. the. video.
I have failed and succeeded at many poems in my lifetime. This month, I am failing at writing 30 poems in 30 days. I am succeeding at writing 15 new poems. Did I fail or succeed? It all depends on how I view the situation.