So this is that week. Claire and I arrived in Somerset on Sunday night, made dinner, and talked about our plans. We'd decided to introduce one another to a poet who was important to us; we'd write from first thing in the morning till lunch, then get out for a while, then come back for dinner and to work; we'd comment on one another's poems; we'd read some of the books we'd been wanting to read; we'd get started on some reviews.
And we've had three heat-ridden, exhausting, vegetarian (with the understanding that I'm not--yet--vegetarian), exciting, tremendous days.
We both came with different goals. I wanted to settle into work on my second book, Divining for Starters; Claire had many poems she wanted to revise; we both had reviews we hoped to start and finish for TLS. Because of mutual determination and reinforcement, we've both been successful. I read and took notes on Jennifer Moxley's Imagination Verses and reread Linda Gregg's Too Bright to See and have begun reading--and loving--Luke Kennard's latest, The Migraine Hotel; I drafted three poems on the first day, two poems each day since, pushing myself to experiment with form and style; and I'm well into my review for TLS, which I expect to finish by week's end. But the least measurable element has been the best--a steady stream of conversation about poetry, romantic relationships, family, and more poetry. I've never had a better friend.