For the life of me, I can't strike the right tone in that interminable essay below. It is difficult, partly because there are different "audiences" in my head for it. I will be editing it until the end of time (must be a term for the way one writes around topics, yes? Eventually getting closer and closer? Circumgraphication?)
The point is: I'm a fat girl. I have a fat face. Let it rip.
There, that's the michaelpollan take.
I had Elizabeth Bishop in my head all afternoon after the William Blake. It's poetry for President's Day! Pardon the lack of indenting...just won't stick. Also the lack of leading. Driving me nuts.
Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck." Love's the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.
Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love's the burning boy.
It all started because of a really bad rip-off that started sing-song-ing through my head, where I was the Ed Bradley from Sixty Minutes trying to recite "juicy peach" [or "ripe peach"--whichever he quoted at Lena Horne in his 60 Min interview], which was the juicy peach that Lena Horne said that was...I forget how it went. Not as good as EBishop.
This poem brings us to the great beach read The Love Letter. And the person who gave it to me. I am thinking of you, especially as of 23 min ago. xox