bog log

Over the last week, I've written a poem every day and walked three times in Assiniboine Forest, each time with a camera swinging from my neck or looped around my wrist.

I have never had to come up with so many subjects, so many objects for contemplation.

In many ways, I feel like I'm skirting the edges of a bog, both literally and figuratively.

Literally in that everywhere in the forest is wet, glittering with reflected light, everything green below with moss and green above with new leaves.

Figuratively in that I'm writing poems directly drawn from my own life in which details aren't obscured.

Of course, writing about identifiable individuals (i.e. individuals that might not be thrilled to be identified) is a daunting prospect. At what point does my need to contemplate an idea or a relationship supercede my subject's right to privacy?

Basically, is a good poem worth hurting a good person?


All photos: Assiniboine Forest, Winnipeg, MB. May 15, 2005.