It’s nearly half-nine here along the southern Irish coast. I’ve been up an hour, waking to a lashing rain rapping against the window that faces the sky and drinking my packet-cappuccino and watching the rain end and the wind settle and the sky brighten.
Not every poet lives near the sea, but I’ve found welcome inspiration in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and textures of the south coast of Ireland, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that the island has produced some of the world’s finest poets. Soon after I began living in Ireland, I wrote “Is It All Workaday to Them?” — something I’ve wondered about seagulls.Become a Patron!
These days, I depend heavily on three apps as I toil in the vineyards of creative writing: Google Docs, Scrivener, and Bear. Scrivener and Bear are denizens of the Apple ecosystem. I highly recommend your having a look at all three.
I’m listening again to “Appalachian Spring” by Aaron Copland. I hear in it a promise that we’ll emerge from all this with the republic intact.
Some poetry shares a kinship with flash fiction, possessing a narrative arc. A poem I’ve submitted unsuccessfully a few times already is a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’m happy enough, provisionally, with the beginning and the middle. But I’m having trouble with the end, and I suspect the editors of the journals that rejected the piece shared my dissatisfaction with the last lines, not in substance, but as poetry. Today, I returned to the piece, experimenting with revisions. I suppose I’ve made some progress, but the lines still leave too much to be desired. I’ll have another go tomorrow.Become a Patron!