Once again I’ve changed the title of my new poetry collection. The editors weren’t happy with “Brief.” Too, well, brief, they said. The title should draw the reader in, it should sell the book, they said. Yes, okay, I said. In this strange time when I can’t do in-person readings, maybe I should call it, “Buy this book and I’ll come read it to you later.” Or “Trust me, you’ll like reading these poems for yourself.” Or, “This will only cost a miniscule portion of your stimulus check.”
The new title, which was my second choice (when I discovered that “The Goldilocks Zone” is already the title of a collection of poems), is “Flying Through a Hole in the Storm.” Maybe you’ve been in a plane when the pilot comes on and says, “There’s a big storm out there, but I think I’ve found a hole we can fly through.” Really? Really? You think? Lightning flashing on both sides, huge flashes, and we were slipping through.
Scary as hell, which is how I feel about the current situation and why it is after all a good title for the book. We can’t sit on the ground forever. We have to mobilize, we have to find a way through the morass. You know what I mean. I stay away from overtly political references here because I need a break, don’t you?
Of course when you get old, your life is pretty much flying through a hole in the storm. You’re nursing your sore back, you’re having cataract surgery, you’re hoping your body will hold up a while longer. Whatever, it’s now a matter of maintaining, storms on either side.
The poems aren’t about that. But I did recognize the title (which is the title of one poem) fits.
Mixing metaphors, I’d say we are in a sea of troubles. Which is why, as I said last time, I am writing poems about wild flowers right now. When I am writing anything. Which isn’t all that much.
Wildflowers go on blooming their little blooms with no notice and no praise. Actually, I guess that’s the way we writers, dancers, artists, musicians are living now. Will I figure out how to get my book into the world? I don’t know. I’m a writer, not a publicist.
I’m babbling. If you think I have something coherent to say, something carefully considered and meaningful, nope. I’m just living every day. I’m slipping through the storms. I have slipped through many storms already in my life. Whew! It’s a miracle I’m here. The current one is huge, political, nasty, dangerous.
And here I come, with my quiet little quiver of poems (Another mixed metaphor: I am large. I contain multitudes). You might think I’m going to take on the storm with poems, but I’m more likely going to be like the wildflowers and just turn blue or white or yellow by the side of the road. You might not notice them at all if you’re a busy person with important things to do.
I walk along the road here by the lake most days in the summer. The mowers like to keep the sides of the roads clear, but just beyond their little strip, such a profusion of subtle color. A whole large field of pale purple star thistle and some small white flowers I haven’t looked up yet. Of course they don’t have names. That’s just us, colonizing them.
You could say all art is colonizing what’s already there, making it “mean” something. On the other hand, as you know, art might break up our preconceptions so we see it new. Yes. Or it might acknowledge a kinship. It might blend our being with what’s out there. The modernists: Kant, Baudelaire, Picasso, Manet, etc., did that.
I guess I am witness. I’m not a newscaster. I’m witness to my own life, which you might be interested in because it resembles yours. Notice I have nothing new to say. Notice this is pretty much what I wrote last time, about the flowers. Notice I am still noticing flowers. Maybe if I hold still enough, if I get exhausted with noticing, maybe I’ll begin to see. I leave it to you to make sense of that.
P.S. I forgot to post on Facebook et al. last time. If you want to make sure you get every honeyed morsel that drops from my fingers every two weeks, you should email me at bfleda@gmail.com and I will put you on my mailing list.