Grace as routine.
The lone artificer loosening the charged facts
from an imagination arguing with itself
until the ache is eased—by the will, in tedium;
and the ache-object eased in its correctness
out of the containing inexactness.
This is ever been the greatest weakness of my practice: no routine. I write when moved to write, avoid prompts and exercises, generally fail to respond to occasions that cry out for such responses (not always, though, as with the BP spill in the Gulf). I admire the daily efforts of poets like Tom Montag, Hannah Stephenson, and Vassilis Zambaras, but am unable to emulate them. For a number of months, as off and on in the past, I kept a daily notebook; the contents were almost uniformly disappointing, though I foisted the best of it on you stalwart Birders. I apologize.
In the end, grace finds me only now and then, and when it does, there is no tedium involved. I feel bound by a concatenation of words, a cadence, a mood that can only survive in language; an hour or two later I look up to find the day’s light changed or the night deeper than I remember. Well, we take what is given us, according to our nature. Useless to try being anyone else.