Monday, November 30, 2009

Fare thee well, No Shave November!

I e-mailed one of the Editorial editors at TWT last night an article I knew he'd like due to multiple conversations we had over the summer. It turns out one of his best friends wrote it, which makes the song "It's A Small World After All" come to mind. He also told me greatly enjoyed the poem I wrote for the office (I wrote the Editorial office and the Books editor letters and included the poem), which I don't believe I shared with y'all, so here it it:

“An Ode to the Books and Editorial Offices”
(a poem by Julie Robison, formerly known as “The Intern”)

This past summer I interned at The Washington Times
with the hope (and a prayer!) of a few bylines.
The office loved to tease and talk to me
while of course I was keeping busy as a bee.
I adore my editor Carol:
together, we shared stories by the barrel.
Sometimes we had lunch with Ben—
now there is a man I can listen to again and again!
In the mornings I always saw Quinn,
who could easily make me grin.
I worked by two hilarious Sigma Chis,
who share an excellent taste in ties;
and though my office was cold,
the whole experience was gold.
The guys oft forgot a girl was there,
so I laughed along with the “sailor stories” they liked to share.
I still read Times editorials sent by Jim every day,
which means even though you’re missed, I know y’all are okay.

Brett said he was glad kids these days were still putting things into verse just for kicks. He also said, in his day, "it was all wine, women and sonnets." This could be a sonnet if I took off the last four lines, but I like them too much.

Dr. Willson read to us excerpts from an e-mail he got from a former student who is currently working with 3rd world countries on modernizing while still keeping their traditions, which I think is so awesome. He tells Dr. Willson how Afghans, for instance, love poetry and how infused it is into their culture; they plan what poems they will bring to picnics (which apparently happen frequently) as carefully as they pick out what food they will bring. Robert Frost's poetry, even though it is native and Western, is well-received; he says they listen to the poems and stroke their beards, contemplating and understanding. Ahh, the importance and power of poetry--and more proof of the need to be versed in country things!

That being said, it's also the last day of November, so how can I avoid sharing Frost's "My November Guest"?

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Hillsdale is cold. Not rainy, not snowy, not really even windy--but it is cold. I need to go read now before Founding at 3. I've been doing toady tasks that need to get done, but as I seem to have lost my extensive to-do I wrote this morning, I shall have forgo the other tasks I deemed important this morning but can no longer remember.

I continue my streak of forgetting things at home; this time, it was my wallet, which I could have sworn I put in my bag. My friend Matt asked me to grab a beer tonight since he's turning in his thesis today, but that obviously can't happen since I can't prove that I'm 21. It might have fallen out when I gave Katie money for her Adopt-A-Grandparent program. I also forgot to give Dad two checks to deposit, so they shall have to be mailed. Thanksgiving Break Fail.

I am loving reading '84, Channing Cross Road.' It's mainly a business relationship because she's buying books from him, but you can hear her voice (and his, for that matter) in the letters. The letters are so real, so unaffected. I love how differently they approach the letters. I love the language they use. I love how they discuss literature.

I always reading and finding poems, essays, excerpts, etc. I want to share with people, but I usually end up reading them to my roommate, who I am sure tunes me out half the time because I can't imagine how she is not more moved than she seems to be at the prose and poetry--the sound of the words, the rhythm, the material! She's a double Biology-English major, so I know she appreciates and understands it. I suppose I tend to get more excited about it than she does, which is likely the case. I'll keep sharing with her, even though I know one day she won't be there any more. Then I'll have to find a pen-pal whom I can outlet my literary discoveries and reads with--how exciting! Sounds like an adventure!

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