Reading Larkin is not so easy; many of his poems are about death thoughts at 4:00 am, the dark thoughts of the night. The Chinese had something to say about those, how we should protect ourselves against them, I can't remember where I read that.
Reading Billy Collins: an interesting short poem called Hunger, which I don't understand, is lodged in my mind this morning. I've reread it several times:
The fox you lug over your shoulder
in a dark sack
has cut a hole with a knife
and escaped.
The sudden lightness makes you think
you are stronger
as you walk back to your small cottage
through a forest that covers the world.
From Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes, Selected poems, (2000) Picador.
Utter loneliness, how we delude ourselves and the foxy (destructive? malicious? untrustworthy?) ones who get away.
Some of the bitternesses of life.
Reading poetry is making me think in verse. At least while I'm in bed.
No writing yesterday, though did re-read my prose poem. R, a trustworthy critic, said it was hilarious and not to change a word, though he added that it was not a poem, in any way.
Any praise from him is good, so I should be glad. Never mind.
Today is Sunday, the children will be here this afternoon to say goodbye to our guest, whom I will miss.
Writing tonight, I hope. I've cancelled one of the social things planned for this afternoon. From tomorrow I should be back to normal, whatever that is.
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