2015 was supposed to be about poetry and friendship. But the joys and responsibilities of being a mother, as well as $writing$ (not going to get rich, but I can afford nicer shoes), took precedence. Friendships fell slack, too, and we’re 1/12 into 2016. (I am reminded it’s time to renew my membership to the Academy of American Poets, vainly attempting a modicum of credibility.)
Enter, this space. The chances of suddenly discovering the time/maintaining the discipline are zilch, in honest reflection. My eyeballs melt as I read tutorials on SEO copy/content creation/social media management, as I arrive late to the game of HTML and CSS, website design and maintenance.
Poetry, even reading it, has fallen off and under the truck of my essential priorities. How sad that is to acknowledge. Writing it, too, as seemingly fully formed ideas fizzle out once approached for physical record. One for Z, one for V, a year, two, since these ideas formed, and there is nothing but a smattering of half started phrases to show.
A poem is never finished, it is only abandoned.
-Paul Valéry (paraphrase, attrib.)
So what is too small to be abandoned, as it would never survive on its own, I will leave here.
This haiku I thought up at 5 in the morning, as my daughter angrily squirmed across my body, trying to convince me to wake up and play with her. I was hoping she’d fall back asleep while she lay across my face, in part because she would then be asleep, as would I (the contorted ways in which a parent is still capable of sleep should be an area of study), in part because that would make a pretty funny facebook status, wouldn’t it?
My only “published” poems to date are here and included in my Sketchbook Project submission, page 29-30, here.
Proust Eats a Sandwich 
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