the poetry students
as requested by @shout-into-the-voiddd
reciting stanzas of your favorite poems under the light of the moon
pages covered in notes and annotations
repeating words aloud to feel how they roll through your mouth
a love for beauty and the many ways it can be expressed
quiet moments outside, listening to the sounds of nature
paying attention to little things others might miss
understanding the importance of diction and figurative language
studying the lives of famous poets, seeing how their worlds impacted their writing
the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot
an appreciation for those who can use a few words to communicate something infinitely complicated
long hours curled up reading in your favorite chair
feeling a sense of camaraderie between yourself and your favorite poets
thin poetry volumes stacked on your shelves
a love for metaphor and simile
reading the works of Langston Hughes and Emily Dickinson, Jamaica Kincaid and Lord Byron, appreciating the infinite variety
a messy desk, drawers filled with an array of papers
awe over how mere words on a page can transmit deep emotion
cloudy mornings
a notebook filled with half-formed poems, lines and stanzas borne from a moment of inspiration
warming your fingers on a mug of hot tea
seeking a way to capture the human condition in ink on the page
using poetry to make sense of your world and experiences
please stop expecting me to actually go to sleep when i say “goodnight.” the moon is awake and therefore so am i
“Is it foolish to speak of little joys that occur in the middle of tragedy? It is our humanity. Whatever we have left of it. We must not deny it to ourselves.”
— Ilya Kaminsky, from Still Dancing: An Interview With Ilya Kaminsky by Garth Greenwell
I believe that a morning should never describe a day. Of course, I don’t believe mornings listen to mortal pleas and reasoning, but I try to enact this rule myself. Yet, it is a morning’s nature to bleed into your perception of a day, tint it with sorrow or with beauty. The only times when I forbid myself from enforcing this rule is when my day is unknowingly stricken with a morning of perfect quiescence, an awake before the world has begun to turn. Those rare mornings can feel free to pour through the seams of time and stain the parchment of afternoons and evenings a beautiful shade of rose. I’m quite a hypocrite, I do know.
That’s it, the Professor is truly the King of Sass
Ahem, I may or may not have read far too many novels recently. How do I know this? I have now developed a slight crush on my academic rival in school. Goodness.
I dream and I dream and I dream.
carpe noctem
PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK 1975 | dir. Peter Weir