Another struggle for Ives. He starts his life in a foundling home. Never knows who his biological mother and father are, although he wonders his whole life. His whole life, Ives feels like a fraud, a castoff, an unwanted soul. Worthless.
I just finished conferences with some of my poetry students. As the two Constant Readers of this blog know, I, myself, sometimes struggle with feelings similar to the ones Ives feels in the above paragraph. As I was sitting, talking with my students this evening, I could hear whispers of self-doubt in my ear: You don't know what you're talking about. They're going to find out you know absolutely nothing about poetry. Faker. Fool.
You get the idea. Anyway, tonight, I actually think I helped a couple of people. I think I gave some good writing advice. That's very gratifying. Like Ives, those moments of self-doubt are fleeting, dark secrets. Except on this blog.
I have time for only one post this evening. I have a ton of grading to complete tonight. So, I am scaling back a little. Out of necessity. However, I do want to end with a couple more sections of Yellow Dog Journal.
Saint Marty is still in love with Judith Minty this week.
13
Crazy, Crazy woman.
I've stopped combing my hair.
Now I whisper in the cabin
and cross myself at dusk.
Crazy, Crazy woman.
Tonight, on the porch,
I unbutton my shirt, let my breasts
swim in the full moon's light.
21
When the sun falls,
oaks pull in their branches
and shadows
creep closer to the cabin.
I am never alone in these woods.
I guess we all experience self-doubt... |
No comments:
Post a Comment