tumblr_mxtrtqzYiz1rrgft7o1_500I’ve been reading a couple books recently that have inspired six poems: Dancing At The Devil’s Party: Essays on Poetry, Politics and the Erotic by Alicia Suskin Ostriker and My Rice Tastes Like The Lake by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa. I’m quite enchanted with both for different reasons. Ostriker is a savvy essayist. Even better, she’s an insightful explicator on literature….not to mention modern life. I particularly liked her criticism of the traditional literary perspective that poetry be emotionless and sexless, merely suggesting emotion or sex. Dhompa’s book of poetry is emotional and yet one is never sure just what was the original wound, at least not for the first half of the book. She describes so many wounds and is especially jaded about modern life. And yet the language and content is quite restrained. It reminds me of the flashes of images captured by the eye in a strobe’s light, sentence by sentence, except Dhompa completes the image with each sentence. It’s quite fascinating poetry and juxtaposed with Ostriker’s essays? Well I’m captivated and taking my time. Nicely stimulating reading for any poet.

But let’s not forget Remus.

Today at lunch:

Me: I am quite offended at your work for not allow you time for fucking. Just sayin’.

Remus: I don’t think they allow fucking at any time during the day. Lunch is simply no exception.

What can one say to that? I just scowled. He laughed, delighted with my whining.

Not that he’s had any time at all for fucking during lunch in the past two years since his schedule changed, but there you go. The “nooner” category of this blog is simply withering for lack of juicy updates. I complained a bit when this thirty minute lunch period first started and I am still wistful for a little noontime nooky.

I think he liked my complaints. He was grinning and calling me “wonder woman” as he left to go back to work.

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