WhimsyLand

I haven't been writing poetry lately.  I think it's because I have this theory that if you have nothing to say, you shouldn't say it.

I haven't been doing anything very literary lately, except talking to Der about things literary, perhaps.  While he was having lunch or painting the fence or cleaning brushes.  I have failed to mention poet bloggers whose commentary or work I have admired.  CDY (who is now luxuriating in Sin City, I believe) had pointed to a poem by Paul Guest which was quite fine.  Yes, quite fine.  Paul has also recently posted Seduction With Kissinger, which I quite liked.  The Journal or Indiana Review (I forget which) published my poem about Henry.  I like Paul's better.

Miss Emily is just fine, thank you.  Dr. Stan, our vet, says that once a female cat goes into heat, they pretty much stay in heat.  Apparently, female cats are capable of ovulating on demand.  Their constantly elevated estrogen levels aren't good for their long-term health, and the answer is neutering.  I'm assuming that he is correct and not some kind of nutcase, which I doubt as I've known him for many years and with many pets.

I think I'll enter a few more contests.  What the hell, the presses can use my entry fees, and there are some interesting judges out there this year.  No, I'm not going to say which, but it's not anybody one-dimensional.  OK, I'll mention one.  I admire David Shapiro's work (though I fall short of the fan status of Jonathan) and he's judge of the Marsh Press Poetry Prize.  I'm completely conflicted about poetry book competitions.  I'm quite certain that my 100-odd poems, of which maybe 60 would be in any one manuscript, have way too much emotional range, are too varied between the sincere and whimsical, are too heterogeneous on the plainspoken/disjunctive range, and reflect my generally mercurial nature.

I drove Der to the airport, as Cath is still in Spain and Kyle is recovering from some kind of alien infection that possesses your sinuses.  We had a lovely lunch at Pour La France overlooking the folks who wait under the huge white tent of DIA's main terminal, scanning for their loved ones as they ascend the stairs from the tram.  As Junie predicted, I had the Salad Niçoise (with tomatoes, capers, hard-boiled egg slices, anchovies, baby potatoes).  Derek had my second choice, the Lox and Bagels (with tomatoes, capers, cucumbers, and cream cheese on the side).  Rachel Ray doesn't make that kind of thing.  I know, because I watch 30-Minute Meals occasionally on my morning treadmill walk in front of 200 satellite channels.  Every time I turn around I see Rachel Ray:  on the cover of a supermarket magazine, in the Parade magazine inside the Sunday paper, in the tabloids for splitting with her husband, on the radio doing some promotion.  She seems like a nice-enough gal, though the intentional dumbing-down and "hey, I'm just throwing this stuff together with a budget dependent upon my other job as a Long Island bricklayer" gets a bit old.  Also how all olive oil (which, as I do, she throws into just about everything) is "EVO" (Extra Virgin Olive Oil).  You really don't need "EVO" for most things, including sautéing.  The guy who follows her on Food Network seems a bit more authentic.  He's a personal chef, which in NYC, is a caterer who shows up and uses the Aga range and marble countertop in your gourmet kitchen to feed your intimate party guests.  His focus is showing us how to make really delicious food on a budget, and I like the lack of snobbery (for example, 80% of all frozen fruits and vegetables nowadays are superior to anything you can buy fresh at Whole Foods).  This line of thought would lead me to BET, where they have all those fabulous gospel singers, most of whom are adorned with 8 pounds of wrist, neck and ear bling.  Or the next channel up which is always JAG, at any time of day.  Or the next six channels, which are all infomercials (The Little Giant Ladder, The Glycemic Index Diet, The Bullet Blender), but I digress. 

Talk at you tomorrow.