“An archaeologist is the best husband a woman can have. The older she gets, the more interested he is in her.” — Agatha Christie
I’ve got nothing. . . Well, that’s not entirely true:
During comps our prof. picked a poem we were not familiar with for us to explicate. The name of the poet was not given. He wanted the poem to speak for itself. My poem was “Mint” I don’t remember what on earth I wrote. I was too preoccupied with worry to write anything worthwhile. I do remember being distressed because I knew nothing of nettles and thought it an important detail. But I never forgot the poem which was probably the point.
It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles
Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.
But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.
The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.
Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we’d failed them by our disregard.
The funny thing is, in college my literature professor and academic councilor always wanted me to write about the feminine and the masculine. Always. I never did. Not once. I always wrote of other themes, anything but the masculine and feminine. And now, I can’t escape them! Those themes drive my poetry, my writings, my thoughts. Oh, fate.
I dislike the phrase “that said” or “having said that” there are other perfectly good words that would suffice and are clearer: however, still, nevertheless, nonetheless, in spite of, although. . . I enjoyed this article, The Maniacal use of “having Said that” which further discusses the phrase.
So, if you shot your foe
in the head –
There are thousands to replace the dead.
Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.
-Daphne du Maurier