I'm sitting here at the keyboard while vegetables burn in the kitchen and my poems for this weekend's readings are rehearsing themselves upstairs. I found myself feeling oddly disheartened about my poetry this week, at the same time that I was picking and rehearsing the poems from my book to read. I found myself thinking that it has been awhile since I wrote one that I felt about as I feel about these.
Fallow field syndrome, I guess. That and work-work bizzyness. Poetry requires a certain kind of dream-time, maybe something sort of like the aboriginal dream-time, or meditative states, or ... a cave.
And while I'm fallow-ish, Poetry and as Megalopoet pointed out, Paris Review, those two lit-pillars, are if not toppling, certainly shuddering. Change is unsettling, and icons should only be disturbed once a decade or so.
Follow the fallowness and it will probably turn over, is my guess. As will Poetry and Paris.