(no subject)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the wonderful Edgelet/Mr. the Edge/Reg/the Edge/the object of my fangirling/EDGE! *gloms to him even though we are separated by an ocean and he doesn't even know me, dammit*
*cough* Anyway. In 4.5 hours I am leaving for Rhode Island to visit my dad's side of the family; won't be back until late on Thursday. All of you! Stop writing or I shall have to positively wade through my friends list to catch up.
For now, though, I'd like to leave you with a few thoughts:
Eating pizza at 2:30 in the morning is (fattening) goodness.
The incredible beauty of "Heartland" is all thanks to Edge. I had suspected this before, but now it is definitely true. Both his guitar and backing vocals are just.......meltworthy. *more love to the amazing talented dorky handsome incredible 43-years-young demigod Edge!*
I found this poem in the New Yorker that I really like. Some time ago I was talking with axver about modern poetry and how much it can suck. But this, I think, really works. I love the imagery it conjures up; how it is detailed enough to paint a picture, but vague enough to let your imagination run free when it comes to what exactly is going on. It also has a smart, subtle flow to it. So, without further ado, here is "Stanley's First Death" by Cleopatra Mathis:
The body becomes a vessel, the rasping breath
its proof, and before him nothing
but that ocean sweep
he travelled over. His spirit
lofted forth, his voice
a long quavering
when the wind permitted, as if
out there somewhere some god
held the string
He was carried somewhere else, who knows?
then fell back, found
the diligent old body at his desk.
Read it over a few times. That's really what you must do with all poetry, of course, but especially with a poem that is not imminently understandable. Ooooh, I like it more each time I read it. *poetry geek central*
Bleck, I'm so glad I get heaps of time in the car to sleep tomorrow. *yawns* *stretches* *goes off to pack* *but not without blowing goofy fangirly kisses to Edge first*
*cough* Anyway. In 4.5 hours I am leaving for Rhode Island to visit my dad's side of the family; won't be back until late on Thursday. All of you! Stop writing or I shall have to positively wade through my friends list to catch up.
For now, though, I'd like to leave you with a few thoughts:
Eating pizza at 2:30 in the morning is (fattening) goodness.
The incredible beauty of "Heartland" is all thanks to Edge. I had suspected this before, but now it is definitely true. Both his guitar and backing vocals are just.......meltworthy. *more love to the amazing talented dorky handsome incredible 43-years-young demigod Edge!*
I found this poem in the New Yorker that I really like. Some time ago I was talking with axver about modern poetry and how much it can suck. But this, I think, really works. I love the imagery it conjures up; how it is detailed enough to paint a picture, but vague enough to let your imagination run free when it comes to what exactly is going on. It also has a smart, subtle flow to it. So, without further ado, here is "Stanley's First Death" by Cleopatra Mathis:
The body becomes a vessel, the rasping breath
its proof, and before him nothing
but that ocean sweep
he travelled over. His spirit
lofted forth, his voice
a long quavering
when the wind permitted, as if
out there somewhere some god
held the string
He was carried somewhere else, who knows?
then fell back, found
the diligent old body at his desk.
Read it over a few times. That's really what you must do with all poetry, of course, but especially with a poem that is not imminently understandable. Ooooh, I like it more each time I read it. *poetry geek central*
Bleck, I'm so glad I get heaps of time in the car to sleep tomorrow. *yawns* *stretches* *goes off to pack* *but not without blowing goofy fangirly kisses to Edge first*