There’s nothing like asking for blurbs that reminds me that I am probably the least glamorous of poets.
Wendell Berry can isolate on his farm, and everything thinks its cool. No big readings or university gig or living in the big city or editing the big magazine? Just out in the fields? It’s cool. It’s romantic.
But what about the stay-at-home homeschooling mom of six? Why is changing diapers just less romantic than shoveling manure?
Take the author photo for example–Wendell Berry could do a nice right-in-front-of-a-barn photo.
If we are being completely honest here, I should probably be pictured in front of a sinkload of dirty dishes, or maybe sitting on the floor next to a pile of laundry.
I’m not saying all this to make you feel sorry for me–I love this life, and I chose it (and keep choosing it!). I just wish I could have the same romantic-hermit visage that Wendell Berry has on his farm.
But asking the domestic to become romantic may be a stretch of imagination even poets can’t make.