A Classic Conundrum

WANT to write. NOTHING to write about.

My poetry mentor, Erich Hintze, always encouraged me to include important content in the title and continue the poem with no thought break between the title and the body of the poem.

There you go, Erich.

Today is a wordy day with no anchoring topic.  Music & words are filling my head so loudly while I spin & knit that I can't listen to my good husband when he talks to me.

When this happens, I catch myself talking internally to SOMEONE, as if I'm writing a letter.  Maybe I'm just doing some lazy (ie: not actually writing it down) journalling.  I invent tag lines to blogs and articles that I'll never write.

Let's see there's:

Hit the Tiresome Button!: What NOT to post on FACEBOOK or RAVELRY

How Making Stuff Keeps Me From Going to Jail

Short Bus Luddites

What Would Lorelei Do?-Advice for Mothers with Brainy Daughters 

Stop Talking!

Etc, etc.  

I guess these are mostly rants.  Anyway, these things (and many more) are rampaging through my brain today.  Soundtrack: Sting Live in Berlin. Audible only to me.

Pictured below is the sweetest girl I know.  She knows just what to say when this mood is upon me!

Dixie Marie

Look at this lovely thing I found!

Minnesota Poetry: Eireann Lorsung's "Knitting"

Posted at 8:31 AM on January 25, 2010 by Marianne Combs (1 Comments)
Filed under: Minnesota Poets, Poetry

Éireann Lorsung's poetry reflects a love of craft; not just the craft of poetry, but her love of textiles, dressmaking, and paper. Lorsung's artistic talents are not limited to being a wordsmith; she also used to have her own line of clothing and now creates prints and drawings. Lorsung was born in Minneapolis and earned in MFA in writing and her BAs in English and Japanese from the University of Minnesota. You can find out more about Lorsung at her website, ohbara.com.

Knitting

When are you coming back to stand in front fo the window?
(I heard you whistling last night. Cars pass me by all day,

waves circling the enormous globe.)
So much is left out, I'm knitting a pattern without

stitches, without needles, only long fingerbones
to carry yarn. There was something buried

the night I left Eau Claire for good, and I never knew
how it would grow. Now your childhood friends

are my students, I walk past houses you lived in
without my knowledge and your scent trails

from abondoned bakeries. Whole warehouses
have been invented to catalogue want like this.

I go on knitting night and day because I don't know
any other thing. All unknits by darkness

into twine birds use piece by piece. What secret
name can I call you? What adventure are you on tonight?

There is forgetting in the density of raw new wool,
yarn shop one block from your apartment,

the cheap scarf - you don't value things
because you never make them. Moon over the whitening world

sharpens spindle, windowframe. The sash
is pulled, seam is set: without material, there is no map.