Writing and writers

This is what I am talking about. Last night, I was sitting in my parents' den, talking with them and Cindy and Cissie before we went off to supper. At various times in the conversation, something that I wanted to get down on this blog appeared across the canvas of my mind. Now I am here in my office in front of the blank page on my computer screen and I am without any memory of what I wanted to write down. Sad, sad, sad.

Schade, schade, schade. [auf Deutsch]

Cindy seemed to be doing better after we left the doctor's office last night. Last night she was moving quite well without the need for any assistance. Even after we got home, she was better. I truly believe that she was able to get over the concern and her consciousness of her condition for awhile. The doctor said her dizziness was not caused by her thyroid condition. It could be the anemia. At this point it remains an undiagnosed condition.

Cindy is trying to go into work today. I am taking her around 11:00 this morning. I hope she does alright. She seems to do so much better when she is able to go into work and deal with the business of her vocation. I guess we all do.

I am looking forward to a few closings this week. We are supposed to close a sale and purchase of a house in McDonough this Friday. We are also supposed to close another loan on the same day with Jim Hill. We shall see. Right now, I could really use a little bit of extra sleep. In saying that, I realize that I already slept longer this morning than normal. Oh, if I could only sleep like I did when I was a child. No cares. No concerns. No reason for lack of sleep. Just putting on your pajamas, brushing your teeth, then laying head to pillow. Then darkness until the morning.

Then dressing for school or play. Breakfast prepared by my mother. A last contact with my father before he went off to work. Was that some early manifestation of paradise, or what? Perhaps, like William Wordsworth's 'Intimation Ode', it was a brief foretaste of final glory. Now this time of sleeping and forgetting. Until that final return to paradise.

Wordsworth was my first favorite poet. He was the poet of nature, of childhood, of the romance of the simplicities of life. I can see him sitting in his chamber, thinking of his youth, and yearning for a return to that glory and promise. The words flowing onto the page, portending a promise of that eventual return.

All in all, I think Coleridge was more grounded. When you compare 'Frost at Midnight' you can see the real scene. It is less romantic, more realistic. In high school, I loved the 'Intimation Ode.' But when I took the course on Romantic poets in college, I loved 'Frost at Midnight' and 'Ode on a Grecian Urn.' Coleridge, Keats and Blake were the best.

Keats, how I do love his poetry. It is hard to believe how prolific he could be in such a short life. Like Doc Holliday, tuberculosis cut his life short. The talent was out there for all to see. I don't see how anyone could look at his poetry and not see the talent. Self-evident.

Byron was a great writer, but I particularly liked his lifestyle. Throwing parties in the ruins of his ancestral home, a fire blazing in the fireplace, Byron drinking red, red wine out of a chalice fashioned from a skull. A bear and a lion, chained to the entrance, so that you had to walk between them to get to the party. Giving his life to the liberation of the Greek people. If that wasn't the predecessor of modern living, I don't know what was.

His poetry was good, but his life was the ultimate poem he wrote. So many of these poets lived lives of simplicity and domesticity compared to their writing. Blake may be the greatest example of this. His poetry was so far beyond the normal. It was almost like a graphic novel of today. But his life was very normal. Who would have thought he had it within himself. He was the Tolkein of the eighteenth century. Creating his own world on paper.

Can you tell I like the Romantic poets? Shelley is the only one that pales in comparison to the others. So purple sometimes.

Well, this has been my poetic round table for the day. Maybe I can come up with something more profitable later.