because life is short and you too are thirsty

I have realized two things in the last year…

Realization 1: People write blogs.

There appear to be two main kinds: topical and personal. Topical blogs connect us with issues, ideas, information, and with strangers who share similar interests. (Check out a couple of my favorites on the left.) Personal blogs, on the other hand, connect us to people we love when distance or circumstance get in the way. (I have somewhat filled the void left by BSG marathons and three-hour Xinjiang lunches in Qingdao by reading Stella’s blog about life in NYC; I catch up on my roommate Megan’s page when, because of our divergent sleep schedules, I haven’t seen her for days.) Both kinds enrich our increasingly distracted and distant lives--for the reader and for the writer.

Realization 2: I miss the constant flow of new projects and ideas present in a university setting.

I knew that would happen post-graduation and post-Chinese-cultural-immersion, but I didn’t realize that one of the specific things I would miss would be the exposure to thoughtful quotations and striking words—frequently in the form of poetry. I have always sought out poetry on my own, but I miss having someone who is an expert in his field, whose opinion I value, presenting his students with a piece of writing that he particularly likes. A professor is like an aggregator of words.

All that being said, I am beginning a new project—The Poetry Post.

Each Monday around noon, for as much of 2010 as I can sustain it, I will post a famous (or infamous) poem for your lunchtime-reading pleasure. Most of my favorite poems are fairly contemporary, but my love for haiku from the Japanese masters throws a samurai sword into your V-8. (The engine, not the juice.) I will try not to repeat any writers during the course of the year, but that may prove impossible with Basho, Billy Collins, Mary Oliver... Yes, word-nerd I am!

If you enjoy a poem, leave a comment or “like” the post on facebook. If you’re also a fan of a poet whose work I highlight and you have another favorite by said writer, feel free to leave a link or the poem's text for others to read. I share with you, you share with me, that’s what the internet is for, right?

(P.S. Future posts will include less words from me and more from the actual writers... Enjoy!)

To start off The Post, here is XIII (Dedications) from An Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich. We read Dedications on the first day of SWC 300, which will go down in history as Hell Fox’s horrible, festering waste of class. (Snapshot: A bunch of English majors hating a writing class. Something is WRONG here.)

Encountering this poem, however, was worth all of it.

XIII (Dedications)

--Adrienne Rich

I know you are reading this poem

late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a gray day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plain’s enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running

up the stairs

toward a new kind of love

your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the Intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.