Argh.

[rushthatspeaks]

I tried to update just now and it ate my entry and I don't want to type it all out again. So here are the highlights: I am in Ohio. I leave here Sunday. After that I won't have Internet access until I am at Ruth's, January 2nd or 3rd, so happy New Year, everybody! Life here goes well. I am looking through my stacks and stacks of papers. I found an untitled poem I wrote when I was sixteen that I had forgotten about. I am fond of it. Here it is.

Let me roll beside this springing language
until some droplet of wisdom catches my eyelashes.
Let me sing of English, and of you, my lords of knowledge.
Mad or a poet: either would buy me.

Mad or a poet: either would buy me,
either gift bring me alive to the gates
where gods bring gifts that might have lesser worth.
For language I reject the joys of earth,
and pray to those unkindly fates
to set me with the gift, and try me.

God, I could roll like a dog in this language.
I'll make what I want of it, and it of me.
Every choice in poetry creates a chooser,
unknown, unseen, unsung, unheard, unfree.

I like that one, says she modestly. Comments welcome. See you all in 2003.

Comments

[fiddledragon.livejournal.com]

I love it!

[homasse.livejournal.com]

Pretty cool. And that's high praise for poetry for me, since, oh yeah, poetry usually makes me want to tear my eyes out and scream.

Poem

[eredien]

That is beautiful. And genuine. And...and. I can't get past the phrases. They're all perfect individually, all perfect together.

This morning I was depressed about being an English major, thinking there was no future in it, though I knew I loved it.
There's all the future now.

Thank you.