Happy New Year’s Eve at 0700 from the Bar de la Poste, Semur-en-Auxios, Burgundy, France. The Bar de la Poste is the only coffee house-brasserie open at 0700 mornings in this section of Burgundy and here I am. But, the brasserie has a quite acceptable cafe au lait and croissant with great American and French blues playing not loudly and tuned to an internet station without advertisements.
I have not composed a word of fiction for six-seven weeks. I needn’t throw myself from the barstool. I chat via Skype once a week with a buddy, Robert Olen Butler, who is somewhere along 1/8th to 1/4th of the way to completing one of his best novels of his twenty or so works of fiction. Robert also has not put a single word to IPad for the same six-seven weeks.
His wife, Kelly Iver, has not too long ago published three poems in Boston Review. Poetry is a personal art; One is either besotted with the poet, or indifferent. I am besotted with William Butler Yeats, Boris Pasternak, Anthony Hecht, and E.J. Laino. No other poet, American or not, comes to mind.
Kelly Iver is a new entrant. Kelly and I are friends. Friends and art is touchy business. One can be a complete snot with strangers. What do they care? But Kelly is a friend (as well as Robert Olen Butler’s wife). What does one say if a friend’s poetry is puerile, self-referential, devoid of wisdom or deep knowledge.
Her poetry is however very good (I linked to her BR poetry above; did it work?) She is also young (‘er’ than I). We’ll see how her poetry develops.
It is now early afternoon. Friends came over and we drank champagne. I can make corrections later, yet still get credit for making a a New Year’s Eve post. Happy New Year’s. Visit us, all of you (after we have found an apartment).
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