Last year’s Pandemic fueled silence has given way to renewed motivation. I have brought the Ziegfeld poems to a sufficient level of completion such that I am actually paying someone to proofread them. I anticipate self-publishing in the next few months, and will be investigating various options along those lines soon.
But at the same time, I have been writing poems again beyond this deeply researched collection. I have observed how my voice has evolved over my writing life, and how my poetry muscles have loosened and allowed me to grab the unique phrases that I always strive to include. To be honest, I do sometimes fear such abstraction is merely the first sign of a mental deterioration I am not ready for. But let’s think positively—I have been writing poetry for over half a century now. If I wasn’t getting closer to my goals now, I would never be.
Live readings in person have returned sporadically. Some groups, having lost their physical home, have remained on Zoom. Others have found alternative digs, and hence breathed a bit of fresh air into the proceedings. In Albany, an old familiar place, the QE2, now known as the Fuze Box, has risen from the ashes of 2020 and begun hosting an open mic on the first Monday of each month, Tom Natell’s old time slot. Amusingly, the majority of readers now use their phones instead of paper. I’ve never been able to develop that habit, although if pressed I could dig up some work still lingering in my emails.
I have a friend who, instead of the “Cloud”, emails himself important manuscripts for safekeeping. I have done the same from time to time, and the Z. poems are safely suspended in two of my accounts. I began an inventory of clippings from my freelance writer days, and ultimately hope to scan in the crumbling pages and save them to a flash drive. However, I still maintain a physical file for first drafts, and sometimes final in typed form. Little ticks of paper are scattered across my desk with ideas for poems, most of which will never become poems. If I don’t rescue the thread of the thing in twenty-four hours, it’s gone. A poem might be written, but it won’t be anything like what I intended.
I have returned to working from home for the winter, my employer having discovered the joys of lower heating and electric bills during last year’s exodus. I embrace the experience this time around, at worst secure that I am employable elsewhere if need be, and using the time between tasks for the homiest of activities. I allow myself the luxury of pajamas many days, at least until lunchtime. I write best in the dawn hours, before the phone begins to ring. I watch the trees outside my skylight bare their branch souls. We have missed the slight flurries so far that have visited the Hudson Valley, but we know those days are numbered. A coat is a necessity again. Sunlight is in short supply. And I am recording my impressions of it all.
