The Poetry of Re-grouting the Shower

 I have been trying to keep an ongoing file of daily poetry "starts" or "automatic writing," - what the late (and blessed) Marvin Bell would call a scroll. The idea is to write daily, ideally in the morning before the mind is truly awake and making trouble by remembering bills to pay or emails to answer. As I've said before, for me the magical time is between the first and second cup of coffee. 

But I confess that some days, my entries are retro-active - notes made a day later - and they reflect the other things in life that I have done instead of writing. 

Thus there are entries like, "The poetry of shelving books," "The poetry of weeding," or (especially lately) "The poetry of grouting." (Closely tied to "The poetry of an aching trapezius muscle.")

(Image from this random grout-related website)

It may be inaccurate to say that these daily activities are poetry. Meditation, perhaps. But poetry? 

No, it's more likely that there are poems that find their genesis or impetus in chopping wood and carrying water. At least, in my case, this is true. I do not write poems of passion that describe the details of a lover's body, or poems that call out injustices and inequity. When I'm not writing about Wales or the Welsh language, or beekeeping, I am usually writing about domesticity and the tasks that make up my day. (Actually, beekeeping is one such task.) I don't feel compelled to change that m.o., at the moment. But I do, always, always, always feel the need to write better, clearer and stronger. I want to engage language in a fresh and breathtaking way, to see the world clearly and then give it back to itself. Today: the poetry of trying to talk about poetry. Hmm. Trying for metta. Achieving meta.