I’m in the midst of reading Marie Howe’s What the Living Do, but unfortunately haven’t gotten far enough along to actually write anything yet.
I originally discovered a copy of her poem in Sixty Years of American Poetry and cited parts of it in a weblog entry. I really liked that poem, but I hadn’t gotten around to actually locating and purchasing a copy of her book. Lately, though, I’ve noticed an unusual number of searches on her name in my log, so I went back and re-read the excerpts from her poem and what I had written. Since I was already placing an order at Amazon, I bought a book of her poems.
I had planned on reading it today while waiting at the doctor’s office, but things were unusually hectic. I arrived late for the appointment and didn’t have to wait at all. I’ll try to finish one or two sections tomorrow, though I’m also planning on working in the garden since we are, once again, have unusually dry and warm weather in the Northwest, too good of weather to sit inside.
Strangely enough, my trip to the doctor reminded me how I got started writing these long entries. A year ago I was sitting at my computer waiting for the “yellow crud” to drip through the feeding tube. Unable to talk, eat, or work, I spent nearly fourteen hours a day glued to the computer or the TV. Reading poetry was my escape from “reality.”
A year later, though, I often find it difficult to find an hour or two to sit in front of the computer. It strikes me that I’m often too busy when I’m “well” to really enjoy being well.