I’m feeling the fear.
I have to decide which poems to read on Friday evening in Ennis County Clare.
I introduce the reading in Poet’s Corner at 8pm.
By then, I must reject most of the poems – especially several with which I’m besotted.
Sitting in my kitchen in Cork, staring at pages, wielding a scissors,
reluctant to plunge pretty poems into recycling
– I need to procrastinate.
Crowd-source the problem.
Ask the opinion of others.
Be open-minded.
Let the Universe decide.
Out-source the angst to my Guardian Angel.
Wish I had only 13 poems fit for human ears.
Maybe I’ll drop a pile of pages over the bannisters – and pick those that land on top.
How the hell can I tell which ones the audience might love?
I’m not going there to please the audience – surely?
It’s not as if I have a book to sell.
[Let them go to Kindle Store]
Integrity, authenticity, veracity
I am an artist – that means I must ignore the urgings of others.
I must purge myself of any impulse to avoid personal responsibility.
I must be true to my self.
Welcome indecision, welcome mixed feelings, hug the living daylights out of discomfort.
Think of all the brazen bastards who’ve never held a haiku, nor snogged a sonnet.
Maybe I’ll crumple 50 into a sack and get a blindfold woman to sink her fingers in?
Trust anything other than myself.
At least it’s only Tuesday.
I thought I had a plan.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 