I can't sleep, so I'm up reading Wislawa Szymborska, one of my favorite poets, who also happens to be Polish (obviously. With a last name like that, what else could she be?). I love poetry because it evokes such a strong emotion in me and many times, I will read poetry that fits what I am feeling. I read Dorothy Parker when I'm depressed, Rumi for when I'm hopeful, Billy Collins for entertainment, Szymborska or Emerson for when I'm wistful, Keats, Longfellow or Whitman when I want to ruminate, e.e. cummings for throwing caution to the wind and Byron or Browning (Elizabeth) for when I'm feeling hopeful about love. Like books, poetry just brings me to a completely different place where I have no worries or cares other than what is going on inside the lines of whatever I am reading.
I have lines of poems and whole poems memorized and they will just pop into my head at random times. For some reason, I have been thinking about Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," which is where I got the title for my blog a few days ago ("Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, would be no crime.").
I think it's time to retire. It's almost 2am and I set my alarm because I have so much work to do, I need to go in tomorrow. At least the office will be quiet since I will be the only one there so I can put on some music and hopefully get five press releases cranked out so I don't have it on my mind while I'm in NC.
"Every beginning, after all,
is nothing but a sequel,
and the book of events,
is always open in the middle."
-Love at First Sight, Wislawa Szymborska
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