Sitting at the coffeeshop down the street from my house grading.  I’m doing 100% on-line teaching right now and the logistics of it are quite complex and difficult.  In a physical classroom you are handed a stack of papers and can clip them together or rubber band them together.  If they’re not in the rubber band or clip, you didn’t get them.  With digital you’ve got lots of individual files everywhere and are faced with “but I e-mailed it to you,” which is the modern equivalent of the dog ate my homework.  Egads.

After the full court press of the Presidents mixing + SXSW + the subsequent flu, I’ve been eschewing music and having been writing again (and occasionally recording other people).  Here’s a recent draft of something new.  Much of the language needs work.  Tendrilous?  I don’t think so, but haven’t developed an alternative.  Poetry isn’t like riding a bike.  If you don’t keep up the practice it does, in fact, start to wane.

I think I was on an Ophelia kick.  Weirdly I wrote this a week ago and last night was reading Brautigan and he has various Ophelia poems mixed in.  Some quiet beautiful.  Not as icy as this one, though.  If this is even about Ophelia.

 

NO TITLE YET

Shells in the snowpack
and occasionally
the bright orange of a fish.
Tendrilous seaweed
bulbing out in the clear ice
by the bridge footing.
And you too
red hair caught back
and eyes open.
So silent.