These last two months have not been productive ones. For too many weeks I was dealing with a cold virus from hell and it was all I could do to show up at my day job. There was not energy left for much else.
But now Spring is here, the sun is shining longer and the trees are becoming green. Last week I spent several days getting re-acquainted with the novel and it felt really good to get to work on it again. So now I’m back and I’m going to kick butt on this thing and get it to my beta readers.
Tonight, though, I’m going to be at the Tattered Cover book store downtown (1628 16th Street, Denver) for the book signing of Mark Barnhouse’s new book on historic NorthWest Denver. Mark knows so much about this fascinating City and he finds the most amazing photographs for his books. I encourage you to come if you’re at all interested in the Highland neighborhood and surrounding areas.
Now, in celebration of April being Poetry Month, here’s a poem I found by Pablo Neruda about writing.
And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.