This is my last post, and I think I will keep it short, and perhaps even sweet. Looking back at the week’s posts, I notice an unintended arc. I began the week by introducing myself and my semi-neurotic (semi-?) anxiety about blogging, moved into a few posts that took up “uncertainty” as a theme in one manner or another, and then, without necessarily meaning to drop the uncertainty theme, embarked on three posts in a row that focused on connection, in life and in poetry. I think it’s safe to say that this arc reflects the arc of my feeling, from the beginning to the end of the week, about blogging for Best American Poetry.
The theme of uncertainty is one that speaks to my temperament in a general way, but is also one that is circumstantially relevant to me right now, since I’ve spent the past year, and will spend the coming year, flitting from place to place, making connections as I go, and sustaining the old ones, but not setting down roots anywhere. In some ways this suits me, perhaps in part because such pinging around roughs awake the tension between connection and disconnection that feels so central to poems and to my sense of how I fit in the world; but as someone who does get very quickly attached to people and places, it feels scary and hard at times too. I would like to thank the folks at Best American Poetry, especially Stacey Harwood, David Lehman, and the magnanimous Jim Cummins, for allowing me this little port, this scenic poet’s Park and Ride, for the week. I have enjoyed the absorbing work of mulling some thoughts into shape, and enjoyed the warming possibility that others were mulling independently but connectedly in my company. Hearty thanks to all of you who joined me this week, and I look forward to joining future guest bloggers as they arrive. Till next we meet! -Jessica
P.S.—Maybe I will leave you with a poem, just because. It’s from Laura Kasischke’s new collection Space, in Chains, which I've been reading lately:
Memory of Grief
I remember a four-legged animal strolling through a fire. Poverty in a prom
dress. A girl in a bed trying to tune the AM radio to the voices of the dead. A
temple constructed out of cobwebs into which the responsibilities of my dai-
ly life were swept. Driving through a Stop sign waving to the woman on the
corner, who looked on, horrified.
But I remember, too, the way,
loving everyone equally because each of us would die,
I walked among the crowds of them, wearing
my disguise.
And how, when it was over, I found myself
here again
with a small plastic basket on my arm, just
another impatient immortal
sighing and fidgeting in an unmoving line.
