Vermont
A million years ago Ruth Stone bought a very literally out-of-the-way place in the the Green Mountains that has become the stuff of legend in poetry circles:
With my first piece of ready cash I bought my own
place in Vermont; kerosene lamps, dirt road.
I’m sticking here like a porcupine up a tree.
That is where I'm headed this weekend. To stay with Ruth, you are required to write poetry at her kitchen table with her (by the light of those same kerosene lamps-- there is no electricity there to this day), and to be kind to her aged cats. The only poem of my own that I've ever posted on LJ was written at that table: maybe something worth sharing will come out of this visit, though I don't advise anyone hold their breath waiting for that to happen.
I will also be trying to persuade my travelling companions to take a short cheese pilgrimage or two: they are good souls, and might just be convinced to visit Nettle Meadow just for the Old Goat Nursing Home, if not for the wonderful dairy products.
I won't get any work done. And thanks be to God for that.
With my first piece of ready cash I bought my own
place in Vermont; kerosene lamps, dirt road.
I’m sticking here like a porcupine up a tree.
That is where I'm headed this weekend. To stay with Ruth, you are required to write poetry at her kitchen table with her (by the light of those same kerosene lamps-- there is no electricity there to this day), and to be kind to her aged cats. The only poem of my own that I've ever posted on LJ was written at that table: maybe something worth sharing will come out of this visit, though I don't advise anyone hold their breath waiting for that to happen.
I will also be trying to persuade my travelling companions to take a short cheese pilgrimage or two: they are good souls, and might just be convinced to visit Nettle Meadow just for the Old Goat Nursing Home, if not for the wonderful dairy products.
I won't get any work done. And thanks be to God for that.