If you are lucky enough to have work, then an average holiday may help you relocate a stillness. It's a time to take a few breaths, blink a little. Good holidays allow for conversation, communions of various sorts—with friends and family missed and neglected, and if it's really good, with voices from books, too. They can sometimes sound almost as keen as you are about your newfound attention, your extra stretch of time spent in just this way. They call out to you from the white winter of their pages.
( read on......find some new poets )
This one looks very , very interesting:
At the end of the year, in closing, I must also make mention of Deborah Digges' The Wind Blows Through the Door of My Heart, the last book by a poet who fell silent too soon. Digges died, at 59, in April 2009, and this volume represents the book she was then preparing for publication, with the efforts of editors and her literary estate to establish its final form. (Some poems were in multiple copies or had marginal notes, others had not yet been added to her in-process table of contents.) This collection of twenty-seven poems, so consumed with other losses, becomes a more deeply sad but brave testament as a posthumous production. Births and deaths recur often: in one poem, a lover suddenly stops the car when he notices a cow groaning and trying to give birth:
I watched him thrust his arms entire
into the yet-to-be, where I imagined holy sparrows scattering
in the hall of souls for his big mortal hands just to make way.