About
Too Late, Trotsky is part blog, part journal, and completely pointless.Following
- Whiteside, in response to my response to the entirety of Seminar.
Earlier in the year, I argued that only the works that evoked the emotion of modern audiences was important.
Day 6: A poem that reminds you of somewhere.
Buddha in Glory.
Rainer Maria Rilke.
Buddha in Glory
Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet—
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,
a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.
30 Day Poetry Challenge, Day 5.
Day 5: A poem that reminds you of someone.
Day 3: A poem you read to feel good.
“I’m a Modern Man.”
George Carlin.
Day 2: Your least favorite poem.
“The Red Wheelbarrow”
William Carlos Williams.
Jerry was a funny man.
Jerry liked drinking, hugs, and vintage vinyl.
He was a man who just wanted to seem non-threatening,
but he had a face that would instantly start a fight.
Jerry was a misogynist, but in a charming sort of way.
Maybe because he was an existentialist.
He believed in music and human failure.
Jerry liked face - especially new ones.
He admired Johnny Cash
because he’d been everywhere and everything.
Jerry was an interesting character,
and if other people weren’t at the bar
and saw him too, I would have sworn
he only existed in my own personal fiction.
Shoelaces.
Plastic cutlery at a summer cookout.
Open fields where stars you can’t see in the city show up.
Silly walks.
Hawaiian shirts.
Ticket stubs.
Clothespins.
The janitor’s mop bucket.
The bowl of starlight mints next to a diner’s cash register.
Mornings that are just warm enough to still be chilly.
Clean socks.
Impromptu musical numbers.
A dog-eared copy of your grandfather’s TV Guide.
New-car smell. Old-book smell. Same-house smell.
Intriguing phrases in a Noam Chomsky book.
Black-and-white memories.
Brand new bottles of whiskey.
Kites.
Ben Franklin’s choice of whores.
Calendar years.
Fish markets that smell terrible and delicious at the same time.
Dime-store yo-yos. Penny candies.
Soda stolen from fast-food help-yourself fountains.
The word “gumshoe.”
Music stores that have odd instruments on display in the front window.
Playing it by ear. Playing it by year. Playing it at all.
Bottle caps.
Sudden unexpected death of the cell phone.
Peanuts in the shell.
Globes.
Unmanageable rage.
Crocodile tears.
Pinpricks.
Painkillers (the non-narcotic kind). Painkillers (the narcotic kind). Painkillers (the neurotic kind).
Freshly sharpened pencils eraser-down in a pencil cup.
Rorschach tests.
Lists.
April is National Poetry Month! Introduced in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets (and established by Presidential Proclamation by Bill Clinton, as seen above), National Poetry Month is an annual occurrence designed to encourage awareness and appreciation of poetry in the United States.
Is there particular poem that you enjoy? Tweet your favorites to @TheAtlantic with the hashtag #NationalPoetryMonth.
This is why April is the best month ever. It starts off with jokes and baseball and then it’s all about poetry.
I just spent the last hour drinking beer and spinning that “modernized first line” of The Metamorphosis into a full-blown “Tik Tok” parody. This morning I found out I won a poetry competition and I ate the best tasting apple I’ve had in a long time.
If this is a prelude to how things are going to be after I graduate, the future is gonna be bitchin’.
Abbreviated Books:
The Poetry of William Wordsworth
