I miss poetry. August and September were filled with children/family/ house/work commitments, with little space for poetry. Only a half-day of re-writing managed, and snatched glimpses into books: Kathleen Graber, James Schuyler, Lorca…
I am hungry. Reading yesterday’s Guardian Review (when I should be working on a translation/analysis of interviews with Spanish doctors on cardiovascular disease) where poets look back on 20 years of Forward prize-winners has made me ravenous.
And then to read that Tomas Transtromer (forgive the lack of accent) finally won the Nobel prize feels so good.
I’m trying not to mind that I’ve missed National Poetry Day, haven’t celebrated it in any way.
My mother, who is 70, keeps all of the 30-ish fasts every Ramadan, making up the ones she misses through travel or visiting family. This year she said was the most difficult as Ramadan fell during the long, hot days of August. Also, you’re 70 I remind her. Then wish I hadn’t.
Only another 11 days to go of my poetry fast, until I finish with cardiovascular disease.