So I dabbled, in vanity,
in dubious poems, while men in
shirt sleeves fan the flames over
skewers of beef to fill bellies?
What solid, intricate structures do
we build? When the wolf comes to huff
and puff, would they quake and fall?
Is it slippery, soft-voiced,
aimed toward destruction?
And Adrienne’s reply came thus:
the red wolf came and we be thrown into
a state of panic, some mark of
calamity thumped our heart,
fierce but helpless, yet we had
no other choice but to build
houses some of which were straw,
and some sticks, till at last
we’ve learned to use bricks.
We’d plumped up language to
correct any inaccurate notion–
so superior, so like Dickinson’s
fairer house, we’d dwell as
occupant, in paradise.
Day 8. Perhaps our poems are falling in standard? Volume up, standard down? Nah I don’t really believe that. When we write we don’t even know what will turn up. Our job really is to accept whatever comes. Your muse goes where she wants to go. Of course during the process you might be feeling that your poem is wonky and be thrown into a state of panic. You’d just have to lay more bricks or whatever. Perhaps have to knock down some too; hopefully not tear down the entire thing. Anyway Robert Brewer wants us to address panic in whatever form.