You all know that I have been somewhat tempestuous, as far as the poetic section of me is concerned, especially over my questionable relationship with dear Byron, Shelly, et cetera. I have come out of it no fonder of the former, but with something of an improved tolerance of the latter. I believe that I have resolved these issues and am ready to ( Read more... )

I confess, I had something of an altercation with the powers that be at my local learnatorium. They said some things that made me think. This is not to say that I am actually enthusiastic about changing in the ways that they recommend, but they had some things that I thought were storage.

A. I go to a college preparatory school. According to the ( Read more... )

At some time, it is my standing that each of you should take the time to read The Vampyre by J. W. Polidori a contemporary and, dare I say, compatriot of my dearest Lord Byron. Yes, we are friends now. You see, none of my friends give me the satisfaction of being intelligently infuriating, so he fills the void. Now, The Vampyre was, at its first ( Read more... )

I have always considered myself to be at the forefront of intellectual confidence, but today I appear with a confession. That is, I am having a poetic identity crisis. That is not to say that I am wondering who I am in iambic pentameter, but rather that I find myself bereft of poetic identity. I have undergone multiple stages of metamorphoses in an ( Read more... )

There comes a time in most lives when they must share. I must confess that that time has arived here. Here, I share my bandwidth with a dear friend of mine, a perspective inductee into the ranks of disenfranchised, frustrated eloquentials. Following is a discourse of his, done for an assigned class. While I am not sure as to the content of ( Read more... )

It is my personal feeling that logic should be taught in schools. Not logic in the mathematical or Cartesian sense, but with respect to dialectic human interaction. Most petty problems between people, as I view them, arise from one or the other not adhering to the accepted rules of logic. This is, of course, insofar as said interactions are ( Read more... )

I am somewhat stranded at my daily prision-cum-learnatorium and I confess myself bereft of occupation. Granted, there is the prospect of laboring over tiresome amendments to essays for sad, strange little men. Be that as it may, I am loathe to embrace the possibility. Instead, I amend (however slightly) this sight in an effort to occupy my anything ( Read more... )

Alas, but I have no confessions for you just now, friends. I crafted this at a time when the sweet gears of intelect and verse seem to flow more freely to poetry out of want for other occupation; Foster's class.

On Reading Thomas Moore's Minstrel Boy

Tomorow's pipes lie yet in the reeds ( Read more... )

I come today with another confession, and that is this: I am begining to seriously doubt the probity of any socially elucidating litterature. To be perfectly frank, it is not the honesty, not the truth that I doubt, but rather the objective nature of the work. "Surely you expected this," you say, "No one seeks to create a realistic piece of writing ( Read more... )

I must confess, my friends, that I was much distraught when I learned that I had forgotten to post on the 25th of February in celebration of the aniversary of the death of a good friend of mine. On February 25th, Sir Thomas Moore, unofficial Arch-Poet of Ireland, who penned The Minstrel Boy, The Last Rose of Summer, and The Harp That Once Through ( Read more... )