He hath no root, nor to one place is tied,
But ever restless and irregular
About this Earth doth run and ride.
He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where;
He says it is so far,
That he hath quite forgot how to go there.
- from Man by Henry Vaughan
I wish I was a poet. I enjoy poetry immensely and wish that I had the talent of creating such art with words. I can write, surely, just as any other Joe (or Jane?) walking down the street can, but I cannot turn my prose into poetry. A research paper could never be made to have the same feeling as a sonnet, just as an old house cat could never fool anyone into thinking it was a wild tiger.
Once, in seventh grade, I wrote a poem about a lawn mower. Why? Because the poem was due in class the next day and I had to mow the lawn that evening. And after all of that it turns out that I am highly allergic to grass. Not exactly poetic, but certainly a bit ironic. The teacher, however, took pity on me and gave me full points, even though I probably deserved a C-. We had to write other poems in that class, and I'm sure the only reason I passed that particular unit was because I included some truly great comparisons in my poems. I can compare things like no one's business. Okay, alright, that's not true, but it is something I can do somewhat well. Well enough to pass a poetry class anyway. Alas and alack, we all have our skills and sadly mine do not include poetic writing.
But maybe that's not true either. After all, I once wrote about half a dozen limericks for a scavenger hunt. Think that counts?
On a complete change of subject, here's an old ad I thought was funny:
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