It’s Poetry Month. It’s also the month of sweet sweet showers. It’s also the month of the day of fools. It’s also autism awareness month. All of these things have to do with me, and so I am talking about them. I have an Autistic Spectrum Disorder. Not that it’s a big deal as far as I’m concerned, I don’t think it’s severe enough for me to be considerably different from anyone else. I am saying that because now you are two sentences more aware of Autism. Congratulations.
As for Poetry Month, I didn’t realize this was tradition, but my publisher told me about it. Apparently people write a poem every day for this month, and that’s how you’ll find me hopefully. I fell under a bit of a creative dry-spell for a while and only cured it with the composition of a short story last week. It was pretty tough going up until then with lines only coming in fits and starts. I am happy to say the concept of poetry month has re-energized my creative batteries and I’ve already composed a special dirty limerick for April Fool’s Day. I am serious about my goal of writing a poem a day, but not only do I want to write a poem a day, I want to write a good poem a day. I’ve not succeeded to that end yet today, but I’m hoping that I can change that by the stroke of midnight. I better summon up my grace and get to the fashioning block- I only have a crappy haiku to show for my efforts today.
On a slightly more dour note: Readers, it seems I am in a lull regarding published material for now. Not that that’s anything to weep or be sad over. I’ve seen nothing but rejection slips for my last 3 or 4 replies and I’ve only just yesterday submitted a couple of things to a couple of places. I trust that I am not speaking to an imaginary audience and so to that end I am posting these lines numbered 33 in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson as edited by Thomas H. Johnson. I am one and the same recollecting and forgetting each and every one of you. I hope you’re having a nice time during this publishing lull for me, wherever you are. I’ll be back again as soon as I can with new horizons.
If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
And if to miss, were merry,
And to mourn, were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered this, Today!