In fear of Mortality.
2001-03-27 - 10:47 a.m. La. Eep. i actually added poetry to my Writings on my site. An especially odd move in light of what occured yesterday. Oh, t'was nothing spectacular, unless you, like me, find used bookstores Magical Realms. I went to the poetry section to find Auden. He was there, but I couldn't help noticing all the no name poets that I will never read, self or once published, verse with no memory. These will never be Whitman, Browning, Yeats, Auden, Plath, Ginsberg, Rosetti, Blake, Dickenson, St Millay, or Anyone. They're personal poets, good enough to be typed but not to live forever. Unquoted and mortal. Gods, gods, save me from that fate. I'd rather die unpublished than be the lonely book of no-name poetry peeking out with decrepit pretention from a shelf in a used bookstore; because I am important and relevant to none but myself. /can/ one aspire to self-glorifying humility? or is it just a leo rising/virgo sun thing? There may be no Byron left; no way to be like Plath (i don't recommend the oven), Woolf, Borges, Aristotle, Euripides-- modern members of the Society of Yew are ephemeral? Ow... "O let me die!" -(auden is fun out of context!).
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