Monday Manuscript

literature-wordsworth-poets-cloud-wandering_lonely_as_a_cloud-telling_off-jco0259lI have had the wonderful opportunity to teach with some really cool people.

This here post is about one of the coolest (and I say that because she IS cool, not because she hired me on as an adjunct).  (But that part was good too.  So she’s like cool, cubed.)  I just totally used the word “cool” way too much there.  Not cool.

Kristin is a professor of English – totally looks the part.  Long flowing red hair, willowy, all Englishy like.

Whenever I’m around her I kinda sit up straighter and constantly check my grammar.  I avoid saying things like:

“I am TOTES EXCITED about the shoe sale at Kohls?  They have new spring stuff that is, like, SUPER CUTE, ya know?” (Up talking – it’s a thing?  My students do it? and then I start to do it too?  You basically sound like you’re not sure of your name, age, or the reason for your existence? It’s kinda addictive because it frees you from thinking?)

Ahem.  But I digress?

It’s National Poetry Month, and as any good college professor of English should, Kristin has been posting away some really great poems on her facebook page for us.  Yes, she does have a facebook page.  This kinda messes with my construct of what English Professor People are like. But anyhow, I am super totally excited to post the poem she shared with us yesterday because it was, like, the awesomest ever.


And it completely reminded me of why I write and why I cannot find any other way away from all these words in my head.  So there’s that.  (This is something I have been chewing on recently, and so it was kismet, this poem.  I am so grateful she posted it.)




Screenshot 2014-04-07 11.42.18
CC Paul Keller @Flickr
Love After Love
by Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine, Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.




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