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16:50 Mar 15 2011
Times Read: 913
• • • • PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY • • • •
20:07 Mar 14 2011
Times Read: 936
He was loved in his time. He wrote with poetic candor about love.
He was reviled. The Emperor espoused publicly a chaste monogamy that he, himself, did not embrace privately. For writing about adultery or just for a dictator's personal grievance, without a trial, this poet was exiled and died begging to be allowed to go back home to the woman he loved and his beloved Rome.
Posthumously, he was revered. But soon again, he was hated. The Archbishop of Canterbury had his books burned and the Puritans declared him an unholy influence because he had been pagan.
I worry every time I post a poem. Will people like it? Will they hate it? Or worst of all, will it be meaningless and move nobody at all?
How relevant is his statement still 2000 years later:
A new idea is delicate. It can be killed by a sneer or a yawn; it can be stabbed to death by a quip and worried to death by a frown on the right man's brow. -Ovid
09:29 Mar 07 2011
Times Read: 984
Alone in leather and the little black dress,
She pixilates and shines
From the planes of her face,
Looking back across her shoulder
To where the branches tangle,
Rubbing and rubbing
At the wear marks on her bench
Until she bleeds into the grain of the wood.
Desiderata desires things.
She clutches her hem
Lest the clouds reflect on her legs,
Fears born of fatigue
And torn grey stockings.
Lines form to be waited in
By women wearing grey dresses
And whispered rumors
Of rope swings and tree branches,
Of a charcoal woman
Smudging and smudging
As she leans over couples
Tangled together on her bench.
Desiderata clutches her hem
And reflects on nothing more
Than the grain of the well worn wood.
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