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Carol Emerson
Why do we write and, having known the solace of writing, leave it standing on the corner of some busy street in some busy time as an abandoned lover? And why, instead of turning away in disgust, does the muse lie down in the fallow field and wait for spring rain and the wings of geese, strong in formation, to draw us back to the feeding trough to gorge once more.
When I wandered off there was rhyme, and when I returned rhyme was too predictable for chaos and I sought other frames to reconstruct chaos into order: workshops at Brown, a week with Tom Lux at Provincetown, and later, the first graduating class of MFA poets in low residency at New England College. Gerry Stern and Ann Marie Macari, Lee Young Li, Jeff Friedman, Joan Larkin; amazing, insightful mentors all…a debt that remains to be paid. And so each day we germinate seedlings to be plucked when the light strikes the cloud just right, when the air awakens, when we slow down…and listen.
Cemerson
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