Well, the guests have gone and the rental car has been returned and most of the munchies eaten, and I'm back.
You didn't miss much while I was away. Little new writing. Applied for a bunch of jobs, a soul-eating exercise, if ever there was one. Spent many hours on a long, complex fellowship application, which is less soul-eating as I'd prefer a fellowship to actual work. Pushed a little closer to the end of "Both the Living and the Dead," which I think is almost done. Pouted over one rejection from the Writers' Reserve applications. And submitted a batch of erotic poetry in response to Prism's call for writing about sex and sexuality.
(A whole parenthetical paragraph: I doubt Prism will take the erotic stuff -- they seem to be inclined to the discursive, and these are just straightforward knee-bucklers. To me, eroticism seems as worthy and interesting a ground as any and better than most, but most people seem to like their serious writing to be a bit more bleak and troubled. )
A few things bearing fruit: Arc came, with some of my origin of language poems next to stunners from Birdsell. Descant, with my psalm poems in it, will get launched next week. And -- most exciting -- tonight is my Writing-in-Residence wrap-up party at the Waterloo Public Library, from 7 - 9. Come hear the community writers I worked with show their stuff.
I mourn for the munchies of the New Year.
I know what you mean about "expectations" of poetry. It's part of the whole "suffering artist" thing, and poetry cannot be happy and meaningful at the same time. I'm happy to say that what I've read of your happy poetry is both meaningful and joyful. And what I've read of your erotic is also wonderful.
Perhaps there is some sort of historical perspective on why people expect poetry to be bleak. Like all the good poetry they're exposed to that is happy becomes fodder for advertising agencies. Or stuck in the trials of English Lit in high school when the (at least my) world as a whole seems bleak, and that's the only poetry that speaks to you, everything else is just so much cotton candy fluff. Be glad you've outgrown the poetic suffering of high school. I'm glad you did.