professor eliot has given up even the pretense of hope for me. i have thrown in the towel, abandoned the pursuit. i am not cut out to be a poet. i will join the rank and file, i will do what i must do. academia must do without my insights and references, my this and my that. i want to emote. i want to listen to my body, more specifically my heart, more specifically my passion. what do i care of hudabristic quatrains? what have they ever done for me? 

on the other hand, i do have that solid b+ going for me, and it wouldn't take much of an effort to keep it. i can toss around those phrases pretty well, i can whip off a little miltonic free verse without much thought. it wouldn't have to be good miltonic free verse. perhaps i should play it smart, show professor eliot that i've got the goods.

he'd see through me in a second.

my heart was in it. really, it was. what happened? i got lost, i did. i lost my way. it came too easily, i thought i actually knew something about writing. i don't. i've tried to step back, "restart," as a friend said. surely it isn't too late. if i begin with something simple, the most basic sonnet, in pentameter, without rhyme. perhaps that will be the kick start i need. something, though, that means something to me. something of my heart, and my passion. and maybe, do you think, i should start using captial letters again? Why annoy Professor Eliot unnecessarily?

Is "Professor" a proper noun? 

should we meet again, please tarry a while

I mean,

Should we meet again, please tarry a while.

That could be the first line, it's a start, and Lord knows I mean it.

To My North Country Girl

Should we meet again, please tarry a while.

Should we have another evening, a night—

Please God, a morning, just one. Yes, I would

Be very happy to hold you once more,

To have you hold me I would trade all the

Images of perfection I carry.

They only serve to make me sigh. I can

Make do. I have. I will. I'd rather not.

You know me a little, you seemed as sad

To part as me. Your tears tasted of salt,

As did mine. If must, memories will do, 

But they are static. You were not static.

No ma'm, you were not. Nor I. Oh, why wish

For what cannot be, a miracle. Still . . . 

~~~

It's a start. I think he'll understand that I'm struggling. I won't say too much. I'll let my words speak for themselves. 

And what does Terri think of my infidelity? Exactly what you'd expect.