A Writer's Notebook, Day Seven-Hundred-And-Ninety-One

For a while now, I have just been writing my poems, letting them happen.  I do not mean that it has been a matter I don't have an investment in, or that it is as if I haven't been doing work I am proud of, but rather that I had been allowing myself to write without pushing to get anyplace or do anything new.  I didn't have a larger sense of where to go.  This happens, of course: one enters a phase of one kind or another, and it prolongs into a mode of work for a time.  I hadn't been thinking about the kinds of poems they were or what I might be aiming towards.  Of course, that is always a temporary state, and now, I am again feeling quite enthused at new directions I am noticing in the work.  I wonder how long it will be before this new work will change too, as it must, into something new, or perhaps, just allowing me to continue on within it, until what comes next appears.

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