For Twiglet 28

Since dawn it’s become foggy. Or maybe I’m rising into the clouds. But the background trees–and they aren’t that far away–are beginning to look like an artist’s cheat.

I’ve been in a slump lately. Not that I’m not working (she insists) I went on a submitting spree. (first of five rejections is already back). Trying to do things with old poems. Moving ten years worth of rough drafts out of my computer’s various document stash areas and into a purpose-built, multiply backed-up Scrivener project. I read one now and then and send it into a re-write folder. And I’m trying–still–to put together a chapbook.

I haven’t been writing.

But this gray morning I looked up the Iowa writers archived 2015 MOOC. (If you’re interested they’ve packaged most of their recent online workshops, very nicely). I wasn’t particularly interested in the first video, on journalling. Kept drifting. Looking at the woman’s hair, the microphone cord, and the bookshelves behind her.

Tuesday’s Twiglet gave me a slant for a poem. Still rough.



  1. “There’s a strange sinfulness in fingering/a stranger’s books.” Indeed.
    A friend just shared this with me: It’s good. Since I have a quasi-scientific background, I especially liked the study of art students that found a distinct advantage to quantity over quality. I’ve got to get back to work too. It’s tough times right now in terms of distraction but “onward,” as Chris Merrill says at the end of every Iowa video.


    1. I’m finding that the re-ordering is particularly good to do right now. There are masses of fragments, revisions, and duplicates with different titles, but I’m not even trying to seriously catalog the stuff, just putting what shows up into some rough alphabetical order. If anything is noticeably bad–no redeeming word order or image–it goes into the trash. It’s exhausting, but doesn’t require thought.


  2. Yes, fingering stranger’s books. Something that seems so private, almost requires permission. I find myself leaning in to read titles, my hands clasps behind my back as if a child in a museum who’s been told don’t touch.


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