Chocolate by rita dove12/28/2023 These explanations often sound a bit mystical, occasionally even mystifying. Sometimes, on the campus of the university where I work, a visiting writer will explain to a captive audience how great poems-more often than not his own-get written. A Letter from the Editor A Spring Dispatch from the Review’s Poetry Editor By Srikanth Reddy.Jealous of male agency.” And then, in the middle of one September entry: “Mum asked if I had spoken to shrink about the car issue.” Read More sent me a picture of his pickup and many planks of wood. He seemed subdued.” Another entry, in an apparently unconscious tribute to Daphne du Maurier, opens: “Last night I got into Volvo C30s again.” There are accounts of test drives: “Driving the automatic: never quite being able to tell if it is off or just v. “I brought water, pears, chocolate, cigs. offered to drive me to see the Yaris,” a typical passage begins. I was more surprised to realize that, having faithfully kept a near-daily record of my life during one of the most eventful periods in recent American history, what I’d written was almost exclusively about cars, and my monthslong efforts to buy one. I was expecting the writing to be disappointing (it was) and that I’d feel a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation at my repetitive thought patterns (I did). Not long ago, during a spring clean, I came across one of the dozen or so notebooks in which I’d been keeping a diary back in 2020, and found myself sitting on the floor to read.
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