I rewrite the poems and choose an order. Of the poems I have written this week, I will perform five. I may change the titles, but the poems are almost ready:
- This Place Sings
- My Hands
We travel again to the mountain stop for coffee, then to the Kimisala Acropolis, an ancient site, a ghost of a temple, but the energy there is strong. The final rewrites, a word here, a pause there, a repeat or switched line. The collection tightens. But more importantly, I confront my modest heart and climb to the top and take in the view. No one will claim these poems like I can and I must.
So many words have poured from me. I’m nervous that they are mere silhouettes and are leached of detail and image, and yet I know these stories are infused deeply with parts of me, my stories, and have come forth from this land and sky.
We rehearse. I rush through them not quite claiming their due time and space. I vow to improve on that for the performance in the amphitheatre tonight in Monólithos.
Breathe in. Take the space, and take the time. I have arrived. And now is the time to share these poems.
And, so I do. My voice though often light, but expressive, projects well to fill the space and I am satisfied. No, more. I am proud. All the poets shine. I shine with them.
We have a celebratory dinner and then go to the mountain to see the stars. New moon, and more stars than I have ever seen. We count the falling stars. I think we witnessed five!
Tomorrow we leave. I fly to Crete to prepare for my big swim.