i have been feeling a heavy, heavy sense of emptiness this week.
lots of melancholy. lots of lack.
lots of missing.
it’s definitely not so much a sad thing as a thing i observe with intrigue.
fortunately, that means i’ve been writing profusely. i write every day.
while sitting on the trains. while walking through the snow. while standing in the wind.
while looking out the windows. while i’m supposed to be working. while i cook.
days like these, i can read jack gilbert over and over again.
pieces of his biography here and there.
how he answers questions.
You once wrote, “Poetry is a bit like cows who must be freshened if the farmer wants to keep getting milk.”
Yes, every seven years.
What do you mean by “freshened”?
You have to have achieved something inside. You can’t make a poem out of something that’s not there. And it won’t be there unless you want it to be there. And if you don’t want it to be there, you’re in trouble. I’ll stop there.
No, go on.
Why do so many poets settle for so little? I don’t understand why they’re not greedy for what’s inside them. The heart has the ability to experience so much—and we don’t have much time.