It's Richard Thompson's birthday.
He's one of my creative inspirations, for sure. Something about his music resonates deeply with me. It's hard to explain.
I had a poem forming last night/this morning involving him, but I've decided to keep it to myself for a while.
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I write about whatever comes down the pike. Which is to say that if I set out to write about something, especially something I feel strongly about, I can't usually do it. I don't know if I've ever written a love poem to my husband, at least one that's any good.
If a poem is personal, it usually comes to me when I'm pretty far removed from the personal subject. I've written two fairly autobiographical poems about childhood in the last several months, and I didn't see either one coming.
I've done a few, a very few, topical poems recently. They tend to be short, and I wonder about their limited shelf life.
"Poor Spoon," below, is another falling-asleep poem. Weeks ago, I was thinking of spoons or of the phrase "poor spoon" as I was falling asleep. I scribbled a bunch of notes about a spoon in a corner. I don't know where they are now; this version was "new."
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