Was troubled by my own anxieties/self-doubt yesterday. I know to write 30 excellent poems in 30 days is a nearly impossible goal, but I have set my aim that high--which means failure is inevitable. At the same time, I feel more comfortable to take risks/be ambitious in my composition--things I'm usually too timid/hesitant/unable to do previously. It's almost as if my body has half given-up on this 30/30 thing and the other half is working furiously to write the best poem I've ever written, every day. I think this is a good combination (for diversity of poems--and interesting body of work produced in this month alone), but a bad combination for my feelings. And my eyeballs.
Notes on yesterday's poem (which I did finish before the PSA Awards Ceremony, yess!):
- - The italicized lines are excised from Elizabeth Bishop's translation of the Clarice Lispector short story, "The Smallest Woman in the World"
- - Right margin inspired by African myths + my brain
Not sure if it's a poem that should be allowed to exist, but I wrote it, I drank champagne, and now I have to write another poem. There's no weekend and there's no rearview mirror.