No improvement in my throat--still a collection of rusty hinges and knives--but that didn't stop me from working on the fence and taking out a wisteria that has been taking my arbor apart, its vines like pythons wrapped around each other and the carpentry, snapping the trellis, pulling out cross-pieces.  Digging it out meant cutting large chunks, digging down and around, cutting more, digging more. Wisteria is tenacious. When it grips down, it grips down hard.

More work on the arbor this morning, after which I'll return to the fence.  The rest of the wisteria has now to be cut and pulled out. It's a wild head of snaky arms curled around themselves and the arbor.


A Monet morning: lushly shadowed, beautifully, softly lit.


O suggests that I include in the chap book an introduction that explains why I find verse so...what to call it?...congenial or, as I think about it, compelling? What is it about what he calls "classical form" that my reader might want to know, that might help him, unused to such poetry, to understand it and appreciate it. I'm not sure. But his suggestion has made me start to think about what there is in verse--in Qs, extended verse, and sonnets--that I find satisfying.


Now, out to the garden.  I'm eager to work.
Allan DiBiase
4/28/2013 05:41:32 am

Up until age 12 or so I had a yearly bout of throat infection that used to make me totally miserable at least one week of summer vacation. After August 1960 (guessing) it was so severe the doctor said....if this happens again.... tonsils out. I guess that was the cure.

The way music is governed by forms.... Mozart, etc. But this is only the surface. And when we say we love Mozart.... how can one explain it? Everything we would say would be a diminishment. Since a lot of what we love about Mozart is when he didn't play by the rules. Poets, it seems to me, love the forms. There is a group of women poets who meet weekly in a neighboring town. Each week they all write in a different form and then get together to share the results. The sponsored a reading last year at the old Methodist Meeting House in Sandiwich. It was really good. They even let a man, Dick Allen, read. There were women I'd only met at the town beach on Squam Lake swimming....had no idea they were buoyed up by their poems....

Some people pour into molds. Other people break them. I imagine we need both.


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