A current under sea picked his bones in whispers

My poem "Day, Sun, Night" has been accepted by Not One of Us. It was written last summer for rose_lemberg and owes a debt to Frank O'Hara's "A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island." These last couple of days have been very good for my writing ego, provided I can finish any of the projects I am currently engaged in.

nineweaving came over this afternoon and met the cats, who were their charming furry selves. Hestia prowled and observed. Autolycus demonstrated his spectacular twenty-eight-claw salute. Greer had brought Tyrone Guthrie's Shakespeare: Ten Great Plays (1961), with illustrations by Alice and Martin Provensen. I have further confirmation that the olive-oil cornbread with maple syrup was as good an idea as I thought.

I saw this headline and thought it was the plot of a novel: "TS Eliot's restless ghost finds home in seaside idyll." I admit to some disappointment that it is instead a matter of real estaste. Not going to argue with the innate numinousness of the Atlantic coast, though. Or Eliot's attunement to the sea. [edit] It has been suggested that I write at least the poem myself. I should have seen that coming.