My notebook is full of the detritus of the day. A prompt I picked up someplace. Write something important to you. An order I overhear in a coffee shop: small half lemonade, half English breakfast tea. Snippets of overheard conversation. Man with guitar to woman: We had a Norwegian rat infestation. Mother at the French patisserie to her child: We’ll get you a hot dog later. Notes from reading. Ambrose Clark: “All I know is horses”–he chose to be buried next to his favorite horse. Georges Perec: “what matters is not the importance of what is observed, but its triviality.” Always a situating in time and space. I’ve come late to the coffee shop after fitful sleep. I’ve come late and the quiet I need for writing is gone. Neighborhood almost silent this morning. A hint of pink sunrise. Always writing about writing. Trying to write a few lines to keep my hand nimble. The hand stays loose with letter writing, but the mind isn’t collecting. I haven’t been writing, and I feel untethered, unrooted.
white paper and pen
waiting for words’ arrival
pages start to fill
Aimee Nezhukumatathil has a lovely essay about the haibun, a form that combines a brief prose poem with a haiku. The inspiration for this haibun came from Trina’s slice, Writer’s Notebook Records.
For my National Poetry Project, I’m playing along with the poetry calendar created by Margaret and Molly.
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