Ruby Street

My next book, now it’s public, will be called Brink (unless there is a last-minute title change, always possible in publishing). Now that it’s more or less settled, I am of course working on writing ideas beyond that – ideas that are more than a poem here and there. Needless to say, this includes a ‘next next’ book, the one after this next book, as an idea.   I realise, of course, that in poetry publishing there’s never a ‘next book’ until it’s signed, sealed and delivered, but the idea of ‘next’ is a focus for activity, as well as a goad, and a reminder that there may be a place for a few things to land together. It may never happen, I may not make it (that gets more clear as you get older), and the-world-as-I-know-it may not make it (that’s pretty clear right now), but you never know your luck. Brink , I suspect, will be seen as broadly ‘ecopoetic’ (more on that soon) – anyway, I’ll bet at least one review (should I get any reviews but, hey, you never know your luck) will me...

'Poetry seems often a talking to self as well as other as well as self as other, a simultaneity that recognizes the elusive multiplicity of what is called "identity." ' Michael Palmer , "Autobiography, Memory and Mechanisms of Concealment", in Bob Perleman, ed. Writing / Talks , Southern Illinois University Press, 1985.

I've been taking time out from the blogosphere; I haven't timed out. I've been hot in Adelaide and shivered under my own blanket, accompanied by a series of strange dreams. The list of 'things to do' has grown longer, but many of them are happy things. I am changing direction, but as the wheel is still in its turn, I can't say what that will be. But I have shown poems in progress to a couple of people; the words are maybe not as bad as they seem to me sometimes. I have been to a lot of book launches, new words all the time. The sun is out, and last night's rain drips gently from the gutter. So many birds, perhaps the drought is sending them to coasts.

"A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity — he is continually in for — and filling some other Body — The Sun, the Moon, the Sea, and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute — the poet has none; no identity — he is certainly the most unpoetical of all of God's Creatures. If then he has no self, and if I am a Poet, where is the Wonder that I should say I would write no more?" John Keats , Letter to Richard Woodhouse, October 27 1818

Song of the Jewel Mirror Samadhi Long seeking it through others, I was far from reaching it. Now I go by myself; I meet it everywhere. It is just I myself, And I am not itself. Understanding this way, I can be as I am. Tung-Shan (Tozan) (806-869) (from Two Zen Classics , Katsuki Sekida. Weatherhill. New York, 1995.)