rest now girl...

now, the poems i knew would come have come. to reckon with them in real time. to see my mind, my words, my wishes in print. in words. to share them. that is the next step.

at one point, i sat in a chair in the garden, head back in the sun, not knowing what to write. and she came, my grams. made her way to me through the silence. through the distance.

i read that poem and cried.

everyone there understood. i was grateful she came. i'm grateful i had her once in my life, to know that kind of love. it's transformative. even the memory of it heals.

and i turn, from memory to memory. from word to word. chronicalling it all. questioning, exposing my heart, my life, my soul to these who are doing no less.

now back in the world, back in the unfriendly world where poetry is not the norm, i wonder what next.

i was so exhausted when i arrived, having worked a full day, then stayed up chatting with one of my friends until well past one. i couldn't sleep saturday during free time, so i called a poet who couldn't make it and commiserated.

but by that night, i was fried. by that afternoon i assumed the familiar posture, head down on the table, head up only to read. and once, to defend my dearest friend whose work was being attacked.

he got you to lift your head,

she said, gratefully.

i like the poem. i love what you did.

he was a jerk anyway. poetry is utterly subjective, and i didn't appreciate his arrogant assault of my friend. but i was not up for a fight, and sternly rebuked him with my head up. he shut up and we moved on to the next poem.

dragging through the rest of the night, i lay back, arms splinted in braces because it gives me a break. all the writers in the room reached out to me, carpal tunnel is no laughing matter among the literary set. and i assured them,

i do not have carpal tunnel, but i'm exhausted.

holding up my hands, my head, my body in the upright position was beyond me, and i sat up only to read. opened my eyes only to read my one poem, then went to bed at ten. didn't stir until seven am. but i'm still tired.

i had to work ten days straight to get this weekend off, and while i close the store tomorrow, i have to catch up on my rest now. so i'll laze about, doing laundry, napping, resting my body which seems to go all out for me. and remembering everyone. even those not there whom i miss.

so the poems i knew were coming came, my children called to me. and i prepare for my master's work in earnest. many books to read. papers to write. work to do in preparation. i've about six outfits i'll take with me. need about five more. one of my dear friends from this weekend lives up in ma, and i'll try to squeeze a visit to her in while i'm up in boston. it would be nice. hopefully, i can swing it.

i'm encouraged though. my work is strong. there were many new faces this weekend and new faces are always good. the best part of an intensive is, arguably, the acceptance of other poets. there ain't nothin' like it.