Tom Beckett ended his blog some while ago, a not uncommon event, and this time I never caught up to the phoenix that arose. Until now. The world is too much with us, late and soon. I have missed his missives, and the percolation of his art in process. I shall clean up my links soon, not now, to reflect Tom’s reappearance.
My own blog seems a-mould’ring, one because I do not update it often, and two because the interest from without has moved elsewhere. I can feel it, drifting on this ice floe as I do. My sense of writing seems to outrace the rigid complex that Poetry has become. Poetry as a canny formulation, a race to an identified end, is a loss for me. I think of Poetry as surprised language. Tactics are right out.
I mean, I also saw Jim Behrle’s famous blog again, and he’s a writer, he’s an energy. And that the same pointed instrument pokes at the same logy attempts works against my interest in this gizmo. I have been productive for years and years, and no longer need to prove that. I wrote Days Poem! I do not need to explain my grace.
