I read somewhere recently, a writer whose name I can't remember, saying that poetry uses a different part of the brain to prose. I concur. Until I get these poems out of the way I can't work on my prose which is, as my supervisor says, my bred and butter. And I still have two stories that need to be completely rewritten, and several others that require major changes. Then I have a covering essay to write, a title page to invent and once that's done I have to decide on the order and get it to the printer. I'm currently working about fourteen hours a day, until 4am last night. I feel slightly sick all the time. I can't imagine what it must be like trying to get a real book ready for publication.
But you are helping enormously, so thank you, and here's the next one followed by a photograph of the working out:
The Good Wife
Dry as a throat today
so I thought to launder
all the big stuff, air
Get things gently drying,
stirring, in the summer air,
gather some freshness
to fold in the evening.
But as I pegged with my new
rot proof pegs, the sun biting
at my neck like a desperate lover,
the line snapped. Oh, the gravity.
Here, in audio format so you can hear it, is 'Water Butt' reworked after your comments.