I wrote this all out of order
Oct. 3rd, 2005 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
garranSerenity is a child of Firefly, and of course it is a continuation of the story (though not an entirely consistant one), but it is a different thing from the series in interesting and unexpected ways: something angrier, brittler, less forgiving. It reminded me of the second part of - but if I finish that sentence, some of my readers will probably be able to unravel spoilers from it, so I'll forbear. It left me kind of battered; some of those I saw it with expressed the desire to see it again immediately, but I think that it will be good for me to wait a week or so.
I like Shepherd Book's new beard. The rest of this post will not be about the movie.
On the rare occasion that I am writing a sonnet - which isn't so rare very lately, but remains so historically - I am no judge of it at all; I am almost invariably convinced that it's terrible. The accumulated weight of everyone who has ever worked in the form seems to press down on me, and my use of language feels so clumsy in their footprints. It occurred to me the other day that something similar has probably happened to free verse. When I first discovered the form, it was through Marilee and Keri, and as I went on writing it I always had the context of a bunch of poets I admired but could consider to be my peers; over the past year or two, though, a very small percentage of the poems I've read has been by authors of that description, and in retrospect it's clear that at least some of the reason that I haven't been writing much is the bashful feeling that I am less qualified to be in a dialogue with the stuff I am reading.
There is something strange and strong in me lately that I don't think that I can describe; it might just be the Autumn, having its customary effect. Cool colours and colder winds, and tears, and gratitude, and ephemerality. I am no poet; I only throw words at things*. But if I could describe it, I think it would be in a sonnet.
(* This is not a protestation of talentlessness, but I don't know if I could tell you what it is instead.)
While we're on the subject of poetry, and I'm cheerfully leaping topics with each paragraph (this is clearly one of those occasions where I'm trying to make several posts at once), Rachel did this "poetry meme", which asks anyone who sees it and chooses to be bound by it to post a poem that they like. So here is a poem that Keri e-mailed to me once. It is called "The Quiet World", and apparently it is by Jefferey McDaniel:
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant, I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond, I know
she's used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
Now to put all this aside and spend the rest of the week writing an essay.
I like Shepherd Book's new beard. The rest of this post will not be about the movie.
On the rare occasion that I am writing a sonnet - which isn't so rare very lately, but remains so historically - I am no judge of it at all; I am almost invariably convinced that it's terrible. The accumulated weight of everyone who has ever worked in the form seems to press down on me, and my use of language feels so clumsy in their footprints. It occurred to me the other day that something similar has probably happened to free verse. When I first discovered the form, it was through Marilee and Keri, and as I went on writing it I always had the context of a bunch of poets I admired but could consider to be my peers; over the past year or two, though, a very small percentage of the poems I've read has been by authors of that description, and in retrospect it's clear that at least some of the reason that I haven't been writing much is the bashful feeling that I am less qualified to be in a dialogue with the stuff I am reading.
There is something strange and strong in me lately that I don't think that I can describe; it might just be the Autumn, having its customary effect. Cool colours and colder winds, and tears, and gratitude, and ephemerality. I am no poet; I only throw words at things*. But if I could describe it, I think it would be in a sonnet.
(* This is not a protestation of talentlessness, but I don't know if I could tell you what it is instead.)
While we're on the subject of poetry, and I'm cheerfully leaping topics with each paragraph (this is clearly one of those occasions where I'm trying to make several posts at once), Rachel did this "poetry meme", which asks anyone who sees it and chooses to be bound by it to post a poem that they like. So here is a poem that Keri e-mailed to me once. It is called "The Quiet World", and apparently it is by Jefferey McDaniel:
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant, I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond, I know
she's used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
Now to put all this aside and spend the rest of the week writing an essay.
