So I was listening to this coach talking today in the locker room at the Y. She was telling these girls, "You have to value yourself. You have to know yourself. Like, if you were a present, all wrapped up for Christmas,
What would you be?
Who would want you? Why?"
"Self promotion, she added, "is very important.
You have to know your worth."
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
Poetry Butcher of the World
Fool Maker, hacker, naysayer,
Flinger of magnetic curses,
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action,
Bareheaded, sniveling, wrecking, berating,
Laughing, even as an ignorant fighter laughs,
Bragging and laughing,
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked,
sweating, proud to be Poetry Butcher of the World.
My latest not so good read--Gladwell's David and Goliath, which is so full of vast generalizations and half-believable arguments, it's bothering me. On a day like today I have to find a better book . . .
Fall again . . . and I can't complain except that it still feels like September. And I seem to be writing the same poems over and over again. Each time I think I will find the perfect fix . . .
I am reminded of this 12 year old girl who lives on our street, and she rides her scooter up and down her driveway every day after school. Back and forth, back and forth. She never goes into the street with the other kids. I sometimes feel like I am doing the same thing with my writing.
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might: So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Come daily to the banks, that, when they see Return of love, more blest may be the view; Else call it winter, which being full of care Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.