Edna St.Vincent Millay

 

February 22, 2021

Birthday of Edna St.Vincent Millay.

Wrote a letter in response to a note from Joan Pratt, in which I found myself outlining pretty accurately the passed year:

Dear Joan,

I’ve wondered many times what was up with you, with Sarah, with Tim, also what had become of the last note I had from you, which would have revealed your address. It must have been one of the things left in the wind when I moved into this house. I think no one’s left at PEA who remembers me; whatever contacts there might have been are gone. So, thank you for getting in touch! 

On March 13, 2020 I flew back from Ireland on the very last day such a trip was not a nightmare, so in a few days I will have been quarantined for a year. I keep the truth to myself that it has been a productive year, and only occasionally an isolated or irritating one. In July I retired from teaching at the University (after 37 years there) which added to my sense of freedom and renewed possibilities. I always thought I loved teaching, and surely I did, but the truth is I’ve not missed it for a minute. A certain magic has come back into my life that I last felt when I was in graduate school in New York. I was meant to be a writer, primarily, and a particular kind of one, that builds his world around him as he goes. This, it turns out, takes psychic space not available when you’re working full time at something else. I am very glad I was Professor Hopes. I am very glad that’s over.

The house I moved into 7 years ago is part of the magic. Though I’m fairly close to downtown, I have bears and wild turkeys and groundhogs and, now as I sit here typing, five different species of bird in the little dogwood outside my window. A red-shouldered hawk visits me daily, and screams so I throw a bit of meat out, at first to him, and now to his bride and incipient family.

You probably remember me as a poet. My 4th collection of poetry does appear in October, but since Exeter much of my energy has gone into playwriting, and, since two years ago I’ve become a novelist. I’ve published three novels in two years, written five others that grind their ways toward the publication light. One, called The Knight of the Flowers, is set partially in Exeter. I’m going to try to hurry that along. I think of Exeter often, and have tried, with no success, to get my students to apply for the Bennett Fellowship. I think of Norval Rindfleisch grousing that poets shouldn’t be Bennett Fellows because it’s so much easier to write a poem than a novel. Turns out that he was right, about the labor, anyway. Poetry is very, very lucky. You can be the bird without needing to be the ornithologist.

Hoping this finds you well and happy. Again, thanks for getting in touch! I’m going to try to get some books in the mail to you today. With very best regards and lasting friendship,      David

Sweetboi and Denise perch for the first time on the same branch outside my window. They pose for their portraits.