Trusting – “Poetry begins where language starts: in the shadows and accidents of one person’s life,” Eavan Boland from A Journey with Two Maps: Becoming a Woman Poet. Nothing is wasted, everything unfolds exactly as it should, all of your life is food for your art.
Grateful – for the life I was given that has room in it for poetry, for my love of words that was not squelched by overwhelming poverty or lack of education, for the strong poets who came before me and whose work sustains me like air and earth.
Inspired – by Deborah Digges’s poetry, like a finely crafted crystal splinter that hurts so much but is so beautiful.
Trapeze by Deborah Digges
See how the first dark takes the city in its arms
and carries it into what yesterday we called the future.
O, the dying are such acrobats.
Here you must take a boat from one day to the next,
or clutch the girders of the bridge, hand over hand.
But they are sailing like a pendulum between eternity and evening,
diving, recovering, balancing the air.
Who can tell at this hour seabirds from starlings,
wind from revolving doors or currents off the river.
Some are as children on swings pumping higher and higher.
Don’t call them back, don’t call them in for supper.
See, they leave scuff marks like jet trails on the sky.