I'm late for yesterday's post, yesterday's installment of "what crappy excuse for a poem can I slap up now?"
I did some research on types of wood that might be used to build a house in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, of what that wood might mean, of the architecture of a house or a pub nestled away in the woods there, of signs for ancient travelers from the days when mathematics was a religion. And how to infuse it into a poem that is essentially about being trapped in patterns of petty, destructive romantic relationships? A poem with no coherent structure, no consistent metaphor, a jumble of meaningless images, a poor attempt to juggle an inept narrative with an ill-fitted motif and a landscape that unaccountably shifts from circus to mountains to whatever else. (This all refers to All Things Being Equal--you can go see for yourself what a hopeless mess it is.)
I'm also slowly making my way into a critical appraisal of a little book called Ten Poems to Say Goodbye by Roger Housden. Random House, in what appears to be the cheapest of cheap marketing strategies, offered poetry bloggers a free copy of the book in exchange for a review. I had no idea it would be an exploration of "letting go," a subject that I have been avoiding since even before my second divorce. As I read, I am trying to remember that my venomous resentment is an extremely personal reaction and that my critical eye must be as objective as possible. On the other hand, no one reads this blog anyway, so I can say whatever I want. Best of both worlds--I'm contemplating writing two versions of the review, one in which I attempt to be professional (immediately visible on this blog), and another where I just let myself be nasty (if at all warranted on a subjective level--buried underneath the <Read More> link).