In other news, National Poetry Month is killing me. Seriously. I thought it would be a nice idea, getting a poem emailed to me a day. It would be a nice way to keep up with reading. I've misjudged some things, but this one takes the cake. These poems have been reducing me to a shell of my former self. It doesn't help that I have some sort of iTunes playlist comprising of Sullen McBroodypants songs. Today, a poem by Katrina Vandenberg that referenced Bob Dylan took me down, to the mat, for the count. And then, as if I was on some level enjoying it, I decided to help myself to another serving by reading Rainer Maria Rilke. Yeah, I know, you're about to quote D12, and go all, "B*tch, are you retarded?" on me. And the answer is, well, clearly yes. I mean, should people susceptible to poetry even be allowed to read something like this:
I am much too alone in this world, yet not aloneI have actually willed myself into a mope for no good reason, whatsoever. If I think about it rationally, I have nothing specific to be upset about. But I stupidly read this Rilke poem while listening to Lie in the Sound, and now I'm convinced I should be inconsolably melancholy. The only thing I really should be upset about is that I could never in a million years articulate with such precision and depth the feelings and thoughts that poets capture in such a sparsity of words, or that musicians capture in the lilt of their voice or a perfectly placed note.
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
So in sum, music + poetry= a deadly combination that should come with the kind of warning label that comes on alcoholic beverages. Moreover, I am an idiot, as I have currently concocted drama where it does not, in fact, exist at all. Go me!
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