The Art of Attention: A Poet's Eye, Donald Revell
The Wild Iris, Louise Gluck
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The first bothers me to no end. I am irritated by it in parts, irritated by its tone; and yet, there are sections which speak to me. I don't know if I should read it again, or if doing so would be a waste of time.
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No, I won't re-read the Revell book; but I did get a few ideas out of it, one involving a Filipino myth and how it relates to my childhood, which was full of (literally) horse shit. And its title helped me revise one of my 'older children'.
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Spent the break tweaking a work-in-progress, and because its sensibilities were similar to two older works, both of which have been published, I'd revised the pair as well. As their new incarnations have substantially departed from the old, I wonder whether I should send them out to new markets.
All in all, there's progress, I think, though I don't detect any "radiance" emanating from the work (as Revell prescribes) as yet.
But the work itself, the time lavished working and thinking of it, is so full of radiant joy, it's as if time doesn't exist at all.
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