The weeks are passing quickly now, even though surely we are perched on the front edge of summer. Yesterday was a full day of catching up from our visitors and heading to the big league ballpark, threading our way through many people and much humidity. I’ve been contemplating a brief conversation I had on the shuttle bus on the day previous, when I was asked directly, “Are you a poet?”
This stemmed, no doubt, from my seat mate’s observation that I was skimming through the June issue of Poetry, an issue devoted to translator poets and their recent work. But my answer surprised me. Instead of my usual, “well, I’m a ‘wannabe poet’ (not really all that lyrical, is it?) I heard myself say, “No, I’m a blogger.”
Just what qualifies one for this status, if it is a status, I’m not entirely certain. I like to write and think about everyday things we often overlook. This space is has been a chance to test the public waters of writing while still being able to touch bottom. Although I have written poetry, and every so often vow to dig it out, dust it off, EDIT, collate, and by gum, submit something, somewhere…these tasks seem even more daunting against the landscape of the writers in Poetry. It’s this blog that seems to just fit into a space I didn’t know I had.
Now we come to the present, cooler train ride home of today. Earlier today, just when I had visions of the day ahead being very smooth, my youngest teen presented me with his near swollen-shut eyes of what must be poison ivy; no doubt I’ll hear more when I arrive home. This coolness will also present a chance to press through the backed up mountain of ironing, and to type overdue minutes, to send almost belated cards. There is also the dog to attend to, whose sore leg, alas, while seeming better for a while, has gone tender again. But this ongoing dilemma will have to wait another few days while we assist others with moving chores and provide rides to the clam flats.
Am I a poet? A blogger? Perhaps a little of both, deep down. Someone whose work I read today was called an occasional poet, and I like the sound of that.