Poets don't know it
Because Elena has stolen the post I wanted to post today (out of sheer coincidence ;P), here is a replacement. This is a rather cheesy poem, admittedly; nonetheless, its point should be well taken. Cheesiness aside, it's one of my favourite poems.
THE COLD WITHIN Six humans trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter cold, Each one possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back, For of the faces 'round the fire, he noticed one was black.
The next man looking 'cross the way saw one not of his church, And couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitch, Why should his log be put to use to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thoguht of the wealth he had in store, And how to keep what he had earned from lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight, For all he saw in his stick of wood was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group did naught except for gain, Giving only to those he gave was how he played his game.
Their logs held tight in death's still hand was proof of human sin, They didn't die from cold without - they died from cold within.
Anonymous
There is a tendency, amongst today's literati, to eschew the so-called "antiquated" nursery-rhyme-style (like the above poem) in favour of the "modern" abstract, obscure, non-rhyming and loosely structured poems. If you view the progression of poetic literature as a kind of allegory for youth development, then modern poetry could conceivably be likened to a teenager deliberately rebelling against rules and convention...
When are our poets going to grow up? ;)
Only joking. Sylvia Plath is great.
Also, I have packed. Ish. That is to say, I have filled my suitcase to the point of explosion with all things I believe I will need. Over the next three days, in all probability, I will discover more things I believe I need, and then there shall be excruciating Choices to be made.
What will I do without my stuffed penguin.