2005-02-17 - 9:32 p.m.

POEtry

Ah, yes- now it comes back to me-
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore...

That is (duh) the beginning to Poe's "The Raven." I used to have the whole thing memorized- or at least good sized chunks of it. It struck me, being the "quaint and curious" youth I was- all in love with my saddness and whatnot, but it really is a lovely poem. I remembered how I used to remember it and found a copy. Re-reading brought back all kinds of memories, some of the kind I wish I had forgotten, which is coincidentally what "The Raven" is about in the first place. "Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December"... with the understood footnote of "but I wish I had forgotten." It's a poem about the beauty of forgetfulness. To forget Lenore, to ignore the bird would be lovely, but you just can't do that. That's why I memorized it all those years ago. Harold Bloom says that when you memorize a poem it becomes a part of you- a chunk of your soul- almost as if you had written it yourself. While I agree with him wholeheartedly on that, I disagree with Bloom on most everything else- especially the fact that he writes Poe off as a drunken American hack. Oh, but what a wonderful drunken American hack he was! Am I starting to sound like a pretentious fucker with all this literary talk? Well, while I'm at it I may as well quote my favorite poem in it's entirety. Don't worry, it's not too long. It's called "Aquainted with the Night," by Robert Frost:

I have been one aquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have loked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed the watchman on his beat
and dropped my eyes unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street.

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one aquainted with the night.

The notion of being one aquainted with the night is lovely to me. It relates both to insomina, but also to the darkness within each human soul. Some people are not aquainted with the night, or so it seems. These people are the ones sleeping all around the speaker. The ones oblivious to his night vigil- and he is keeping vigil. Like the watchman on his beat the speaker is awake to deal with all the problems in the world, but unlike the watchman the problems come from within.

Oh dear, I sound pretentious again. Pretentious like all the other Art History majors... and here I go, quietly resenting them again. At the stationss of the cross tonight I quietly, secretly prayed for the strength to love all my peers, no matter how much they talk about avant gaurd cinema. I must work harder on myself. I must not let myself hate others.

The last thing I wrote before this thing. The next thing I wrote after this.