I love lots of things. My friends, my family, my pets, my students -- past and present, my apartment, my work (for the most part), coffee, lentils, chocolate, pizza, the outdoors, Maine, Paris (though I've never been), good beer, good wine, the Red Sox, the Celtics, the Patriots, my alma mater UMaine, my garden, flowers, bugs, trees, parks, New York City, Boston, cheese, my favorite television shows, Colin Firth, my favorite movies, Jane Austen, traveling, snowshoeing, bargain hunting, dollar stores, my birthday, swimming, seashells and on and on. But what I've decided to feature is a montage of the Dead Poets I Love. Above is John Wieners, Emily Dickinson and Arthur Rimbaud. Below is their poetry.
from "707 Scott Street"
The wind is a guitar in the house tonight
the dog barks just once
at the non-existent moon.
The maiden strums alone in golden light
lovers say goodbye and close
their eyes on the rising sun.
The Butterfly’s Assumption Gown
In Chrysoprase Apartments hung
This afternoon put on –
How condescending to descend
And be of Buttercups the friend
In a New England Town –
A Dream for Winter
by Arthur Rimbaud
In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage
With blue cushions.
We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait
In each soft corner.
You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows pulling faces.
Those snarling monsters, a population
Of black devils and black wolves.
Then you'll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazy spider,
Will run round your neck...
And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head
- And we'll take a long time to find that creature
- Which travels a lot...