Further thunk

Jun 22, 2009 01:49

I not-too-recently finished reading T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, in my new quest to frequent the library more often.

This particular passage struck me:

If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

I think I want to start reading more poetry again. After four years of constant explication and peer reviewing poetry for Wabash Review, it struck me as somewhat hollow. Every time I wrote any (and I have a few times since those years), no matter what tactic I tried, it always sounded cumbersome. My mind couldn't delve back into the language of poetry--or it could in practice, but it couldn't appreciate the experience.

After reading some more, it may be time to wade in that pool again also.

This will then serve as a reminder that if you want to read it and don't believe yourself to be on my creative writing filter, comment now.
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