I have returned to work this week. Important but difficult. Have just woken up after conking out asleep in front of the living room fire for two hours.
So, apologies to fellow bloggers who I haven’t been keeping up with. Vague images of emails in my head suggest to me I have several of Robert Okaji‘s 30/30 poems to catch up with as well as the latest instalment of Inkbiotic’s Psychic Goat. Oh and Lord knows what else. I will get to it, at some point.
In bed last night I was thinking. There is no way I would want to be young again and have to go through it all a second time. It was rough, and taking all things into account, where I have ended up is pretty much as good as it could have been. I’m satisfied I couldn’t have done any better than I did. Eric Bogle‘s song about an Australian farmer, Now I’m Easy was going through my head. Far better to use your own possibilities as a yardstick than witter over the could-haves and should-haves, or other peoples’ realities. 48 isn’t that old but as an interim-status-report then so far, so good. Let’s see what this old banger can still manage in the future, eh?
Question for poets. Do you ever submit a poem to a magazine and then wake up at 3 a.m. thinking Oh my God Oh my God Bath Bombs from Beirut, that’s the line, that’s it, it makes the poem ten times better and then actually start hoping they reject it so you don’t have the awkward moment of Um you obviously like it as it is but actually perhaps would you mind awfully….
So far this hasn’t happened. No poem that I have realised could be so much better has been accepted by anyone. Maybe editors have a sixth sense. Was it Dylan Thomas that said poems are never finished, only abandoned? Somebody like that.
Going to bed. I’m knackered.