colin and marcy are, of course, just friends.

two sweeter people there never were.

it's funny, this seminar has made 

a little family of us. it's the intimacy

of evenings at professor eliot's house,

drinking cups of tea and glasses of wine,

feeling exposed while reading our poems.

but it's probably more than that. we each

need something from the others, and 

we each offer something in the same vein.

at least i think so. i'd like to think so.

though, marcy puzzles me a little. she

doesn't seem to need much, she's pretty

self-contained. but, everyone needs friends,

and that is enough of an explanation

to suit me. anyway, she's great, and 

it's nice of them to take nathaniel camping.

~~~

terri and i have the weekend 

to ourselves, though i know 

we'll have the usual tug-of-war 

over whether to go to a party or not. 

~~~

i run to the park, sit in the sun, enjoy

the warmth, think about what i'll write.

my mother is a sun worshiper. 

She passed along that gene. my father 

loves to fish. i didn't get that gene, 

though i spent many happy hours, as a kid, 

in a row boat, casting and reeling in.

but i'm not compelled catch a little nemo.

~~~

i remember watching people 

catch eels here at stowe lake. I don't

think they allow that anymore.

~~~

terri goes to a party and i stay home.

i write an utterly salacious poem

to get it out of my system. now i can

do the reading and face the assignment,  

which is, confessional poetry. seems ironic 

that i should have to read about such, 

as i seem to write nothing but. there’s anne 

sexton, sylvia plath, robert lowell, sharon olds, 

there are plenty to go around. i can’t stand them.

~~~

i search for one to use as a jumping 

off point. it’s hard. robert lowell reminds me 

of middle-age men i see at barnes & noble 

browsing the history section, compelled 

by nazis. sylvia plath i detest for romanticizing 

suicide, luring sensitive young girls to this:

they put me back to together

with a sewing machine

which is not a quote from plath, 

but my friend, who wrote from college 

last year. she, a devoted plathite. 

it seemed inevitable. she, plath, should be 

banned from liberal arts campuses. 

anne sexton seems to write about pain.

i wade through these because that is 

the assignment. i read and sigh. as poetry 

it leaves me cold. i may be confessional, 

but at least i write about sex and other fun topics.

~~~

in the end i find a robert lowell poem

called “Water,” which is eight quatrains, 

the last being:

“We wished our two souls

might return like gulls

to the rock. In the end,

the water was too cold for us.”

~~~

thank you for sharing, mr lowell.

i wonder, did he really imagine their souls 

as gulls, those raucous, messy birds? 

and, if  the water was too cold, don’t go in. 

i’m being contrary for contrary’s sake, 

but i don’t like it. it feels spineless.

don’t wallow in it, fix it, do something about it.

~~~

it makes me angry.

~~~

I could pick any poem i’ve written 

this year and submit it to professor eliot, 

but he wouldn’t be fooled. he knows

i’m influenced by the last thing i read,

or heard, or saw. that i have the attention

span of a flea. i don’t want to write about:

pain, suicide, gulls, water, rocks, nazis . . .

which leaves, actually, a lot of choices. i also

don’t want to write about the why of who i am.

it isn’t a mystery to me. besides, they’re all real poets

with long attention spans. what am i doing here?

all i want to write about is joy and dolphins.

~~~

professor eliot is sick of dolphins.

~~~

i let a few words fall:

i find myself

alone on this friday night

and go on:

contemplating not stars

nor moonlight, 

not love nor loneliness,

but solitude.

i develop that idea:

my soul longs for nothing,

though my body 

aches for one, a good ache, 

a life-affirming ache.

then, a little epiphany:

i am alone without being lonely,

content within myself.

and finally, resolution. truth.

it is a state i embrace

and will happily cast off.

what shall i call it? fishing?

i don’t think so.

~~~

casting off

I find myself

alone on this friday night

contemplating not stars

nor moonlight, 

not love nor loneliness,

but solitude.

my soul longs for nothing,

though my body 

aches for one, a good ache, 

a life-affirming ache.

i am alone without being lonely,

content within myself.

it is a state i embrace

and will happily cast off.

~~~

i guess thinking about dad and fishing 

led to the “cast” off. and why i always return 

to the fourteen line form, i’m not sure. 

it feels comfy. well, i have until monday 

evening to write something with a little 

more to it than that, but at least it’s a start.

~~~

i thought i would hear from a friend, today.

I thought she’d call. i hope she’s ok. it has me on edge.

~~~

i text terri:

where are you, sweet cherub o' mine?

i need to get out of here.