I feel a bit exposed since giving my blog address to the class. Dilemma: what's the point of writing if no reader exists, or only one or two?
I often write stuff that I remove upon re-reading, if it's not related enough to the writing and reading I am engaged in. It's interesting how much lighter the text becomes - not a care in the world. Hah.
The Whitireia sonnet is finished, inasmuch as I have put it out for critique on Blackboard. Worked at ten syllables per line. When I looked at it again today, I couldn't wait to clear away all the unnecessary words and pare it down. It's much thinner now, but clearer. Lighter. That's the second time. The unbearable lightness of. I should look it up, what was that lightness about?
The work on the mutilated poem continues, easier than last time. I'm not sure whether I am doing what is required. My verses echo and continue the previous ones, a logic which may not serve well. The author has repeated the same words several times, so have taken the liberty of doing so too, keeping safe. What is new is the feeling of rhythm in the writing, almost physical. Shall look at it tonight again, more objectively, I hope.
Peter and I went to No Country for Old Men, the latest film of Coen Bros, very violent, very well-made. The wonders of under-statement, the pitiless editing, things left unseen, the various murders hinted at, the mind of the viewer deftly manipulated. I am in admiration. The general message is not a good one for us who are getting older. The retired policeman, at a loss, telling his wife his nightmare, dreaming of his own demise. She is unaffected, I have my own life, she says. (She'll be right).
Am reading Anne Sexton, Selected Poems of, (1988, Houghton Mifflin, with an introduction by Diane Wood Middlebrook and Diana Hume George). More about that tomorrow.
Also occasionally reading old copies of The Guardian lent by a friend, good writing and mostly instructive, things one wants to know. It's a boon for us.
I've been writing and editing for close to 20 min. Far too long.