7/8 Wednesday. Short critique this morning with Barry on his poem; he's doing a lot of writing.
Linda Wargo's S -1 group, the ones with the lowest academic skills, didn't do too badly. Eric may sound slow, at first, but he always has a poem ready to write. The word cards worked well for him. We also made some drawings for the book. I met with Linda and Steve Weeks to discuss the layout of the book. Linda offered hundred dollars to help pay for the rehab students' portion of the book I don't know what all we will need yet. But I am grateful for her assistance.
Afternoon recap. Busy day. We wrote to the prompt: what's in the name? Brook's quite a writer. We have a good time. I have two new clients. Ned's so heavily medicated, he's a little too out of sequence. He's a musician. Goes with the turf.
The other new client explains how he can't see without his glasses. It's been seven years without glasses, he says. He writes a poem and struggles to read it, he says he didn't know he could still even read, let alone, write. Seven years! I can't imagine it. At any rate he's really enjoying the writing process. Even if he is half-blind.
Ned finally gets down, so we do all right. It's a matter of reaching in. Howard is very cool, he writes poetry like the way he plays chess. Howard checks us out, dictates a poem to me about his name—strong work.
Barry and I finish our day's critique. These guys are getting more quality writing time in than I am!
7/8 Wed. I've fallen hopelessly behind in my journal. Impossible to catch up. At least I'm still writing my own work, part of the stipulation of this grant.
The other new client explains how he can't see without his glasses. It's been seven years without glasses, he says. He writes a poem and struggles to read it, he says he didn't know he could still even read, let alone, write. Seven years! I can't imagine it. At any rate he's really enjoying the writing process. Even if he is half-blind.
Ned finally gets down, so we do all right. It's a matter of reaching in. Howard is very cool, he writes poetry like the way he plays chess. Howard checks us out, dictates a poem to me about his name—strong work.
Barry and I finish our day's critique. These guys are getting more quality writing time in than I am!
7/8 Wed. I've fallen hopelessly behind in my journal. Impossible to catch up. At least I'm still writing my own work, part of the stipulation of this grant.
FREEWRITE
From the from the wind of a passing truck
the body of a robin luffs and raises
like a leaf and autumn leaf
the orange breast flashing
the color of dawn back to the morning sky.
Tiny wings flutter randomly useless
in its strange head over head flight
along the side of the road,
fragile grayness like a soft fog,
no longer lifting into air,
the last flight of the robin
into another kind of world.
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
Early autumn
Where the steady pool of darkness
descends upon us all
neck broken, his head tucked under one wing
for preparation of that final sleep.
I wanted to stop the car,
hold that tiny teacher or cousin of Icarus
in my hand, straighten its wings
and turn it towards the sun
to escape the island of death.
Each time we witness the death
of any living thing we feed the manna of our own death
we die too, we witness the mortality
of every new day.
We bear witness to our own sleeping
in summer, autumn's descent into winter.
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