44º ~ the saddest drizzle ever, one more day of shivery temps and then perhaps, perhaps, a wee glimpse of spring before Arkansas runs headfirst into heat & humidity
T.S. Eliot and I are not friends. I can tolerate Prufrock, although I find myself hearing his voice now as a whine rather than a lament. I dutifully read and annotated The Waste Land and probably learned a lot I should be thankful for, although the memory of the work still reeks with the scent of heavy labor with little pay off for me. Judge me not. I'm a firm believer that we all find our poetry kin in different places.
All this to say that this week, I really do believe this (the opening of said Waste Land):
|APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding|
|Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing|
|Memory and desire, stirring|
|Dull roots with spring rain.|
I knew it would be a tough month, but an unexpected disappointment has added to the difficulty of April.
On another poetry note, it turns out that if one stops submitting poems, one stops receiving acceptances (and rejections). So, two sides of the coin go missing at once.
And because she is my hero, here's a recording of Lucille Clifton reading her untitled poem "won't you celebrate with me," a poem I've tried to adopt as my own personal theme song.