1 July 2014
This was our room in one of the many places we stayed during our US trip. It’s one of the two places — AirBnB apartments in Massachusetts — where I really felt like home and wanted to stay. Something about the light, and the trees, and the air, and the space. It felt like a poetic life.
I think the best compliment I’ve ever received came from my PhD supervisor. He’s not always one for flat-out compliments, so I’m surprising myself by even saying this. The only reason I remember it is because I notate our meetings sometimes, and I found this while I was doing revision yesterday on some old poems.
It’s about the poem I wrote called “Release,” which I basically took word for word from my post here, in our blog.
It’s good, and so is release. The poems are very tidy, and you air towards too many adjectives and abstractions. But these last two just let it rip, let the rhythm go.
Can you write all your shit out first and then climb up the mountain?
[Natural rhythm and sounds]. You have that. I would call it bio-rhythms. That’s 70% of poetry, just getting it down.
There’s a rage there for release and freedom. Don’t spell things about about freedom and limitations.
It’s the reference to bio-rhythms that gets me. I’m sitting here trying to remember why I always come back to writing, why I care so much about having something to say, why I judge myself for not getting to the point and saying it, why I read to lose myself in what other people have to say, and what they say so elegantly. But ‘bio-rhythms’ makes it seem like there is no logic to any of it: it’s just in my blood. I feel happier with that explanation, with that meaning running through me.