A couple of days ago I attended a talk at the UNH English Department given by Joanne Wyckoff, of the Carol Mann Agency. She spoke about the role of the literary agent and getting published, or not. I found her talk very helpful. I especially liked how she kept reiterating that if a book is good it will find it's way. There is a lot that can be taken from that advice. I hope I got it. Just a few minutes ago I sent her a query with the first 25 pages of my manuscript, after putting about six or seven hours of work into it. Keep some stuff crossed please!
While her talk was very interesting, I did find myself just a bit distracted having just come from tending my husband's grave. We met in Durham, and I chose to bury him there, so whenever I am in town I pay a visit. This poem (first draft follows) was percolating in my head all afternoon.
While her talk was very interesting, I did find myself just a bit distracted having just come from tending my husband's grave. We met in Durham, and I chose to bury him there, so whenever I am in town I pay a visit. This poem (first draft follows) was percolating in my head all afternoon.
Dad's Rock
We celebrated our second tenth anniversary,
which made remembering the first
so much more sweet, hard to swallow bitter-sweet;
in the dark of a rented mountain cabin,
where you got down on one knee, finally,
and gave me a diamond anniversary ring,
our babies content in corners, sweet sleepy
love tucked tight into every bed,
an unimpressed moose ambling by outside.
Now, I come to your resting place,
the gravestone we call "Dad's Rock",
still choking on unspoken words as then.
I designed this stone for you, my last gift,
a Scottish thistle chiseled in its center
because I didn't know what else to do.
I notice that lichen has begun to grow here.
A similar scaliness has also formed on me,
an unimpressed car speeding by.
