Book Spine Poetry - What a clever idea!

I wish I'd thought of it.

Below are three of my favourite book spine poems from the gallery at 100 Scope Notes:








Now - I've got to go stack my poem. . .

Cookies for Thought

Might as well write Moby Dick

"It is no less difficult to write sentences in a recipe than sentences in Moby-Dick. So you might as well write Moby-Dick." (Annie Dillard, The Writing Life)

Unless of course you dream a lifetime of being a chef, and want to open your own bistro and create a cookbook to share your culinary brilliance with the world, then by all means, don't write Moby-Dick -  let me do it!

Inspired by the success of my friends'  recent publications (I have no shame, I will boldly name drop wherever I go, in alphabetical order so as not to show favouritism!!):

Julie Kirkpatrick, The Camino Letters,
Angela Kublik, Home and Away; Writing the Land,
Edeana Malcolm, A Garden in the Wilderness,
Robin Stevenson, Hummingbird Heart,
Arthur John Stewart, Odd Ball,

I turn my mind back again to thoughts of writing.

I thumbed through my well-worn copy of The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, and scribbled out bits and pieces thinking of inspiration:  "You might as well write Moby-Dick" - I can shorten that even further, "You might as well write."

You want to be a writer, so write something.

The character played by Billy Crystal in Throw Momma From the Train had this advice for the writers in his writing class:  "Writers write."  You can't get much more distilled than that.

Write?

Pondering Poetry and Gender

I've been thinking a lot about poetry lately. . . and have been becoming a little obsessed. When I think back to my English degree at Trent University, over twenty years ago, it is my poetry class that made me feel elated. I walked across the Otonabee bridge everyday, and my feet barely touched the ground.

Words and
lines and
thoughts and
ideas and
images and
movement and
particular turns of phrase kept me
           buoyant.
It was a very inspiring time.

When I think about my fellow students gathered around the professor's table, I remember being surprised that so many of the young men owned poetry much more than the women did. Michael called himself a poet, Jordan was actively seeking publication, and Patrick read more confidently than any of the women in the room.

The women in the room?

We liked what we liked and we wrote what we wrote, but without that cockiness that the young men lived. I'm not certain if it is because we were less sure of ourselves, or if it was because my generation still held something of ourselves back when we were in the company of men.  I wonder if that has changed in twenty years?  It does seem like a lifetime ago.

It's something to ponder. It's something I ponder, and I don't have the answers for.

But still, I wonder.