First, for the record: today I read Terry Van Vliet's Black Lines on Terracotta, a 2011 a 97-page book of poetry in three sections from 2011. I don't know how I came by the collection, but I think it was among several boxes of discarded poetry books I received from an ex-colleague several years ago. Many things this person gave me, I chose not to keep. But I'd kept this one, with its long, short-lined, unpunctuated studies of famous artists and poets and autobiographical sketches. And now that I've read it, I'll likely pass it on. It was smart and it did keep my attention, primarily because of the way lack of punctuation can bend syntax - if I'm describing that correctly. But it didn't seem to speak to me at the depth that is needed, in this time of winnowing.
As for the observation: April proved me to myself.
By this, I mean that writing and submitting regularly in April, regardless of whether I thought it was possible each day, flipped a switch in me.
I may still wonder how I'll accomplish my daily submit/read/blog goals. But I don't wonder whether I'll do so. It takes focus and it requires not collapsing at the end of the day. It's a question of prioritizing, as is the case when I participate in NaNoWriMo.
But there's this kind of self-belief that feeds stamina, and vice versa. Which is a huge relief, because it means I don't have to waste time or energy being anxious about my goals, or feeling shame about failing to meet them. Besides, poetry has a power to sustain and inspire, to provide insight and solace. Reading so many poems in a day, listening to Commonplace podcasts, revising my own poems and determining what to send where, feeds me and gives me energy to do more of the same tomorrow.
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