I LOVE literature.
Specifically poetry, but just about anything with words on it will do. This love was kindled by parents who encouraged me to read. It was fueled by teachers who poured themselves into me and prodded me along to write and keep on writing–even giving me a journal to fill with the rambling thoughts of a 7th grade girl. It was pushed to uncomfortable boundaries by professors who knew there was more.
But then, it died.
Well…not really. More accurately, it went into hibernation. Sleeping soundly in the den of my mind while I covered it heavily with the duties of motherhood. Secretly, I hoped this love would dig its way out come Spring, stretch its arms, and motivate me to pick up a pen.
Then finally, after having 3 children in less than 3 years and after being a crazed stay at home mom and after having encountered every possible symptom of hypothyroidism, Spring arrived, and I can now squint my eyes and see the sunshine and feel that little fire deep inside urging me to write!
So this first post is dedicated to Mr. Thompson, my 10th grade English teacher. Every day, Mr. Thompson would share a poem with us. He was a methodical reader–and I mean that in the best way possible. He took care with every word, every phrase, every emotion. Somewhere, I still have a list of the poems he read that year. I sat at my desk enamored and enchanted by every word.
This was his favorite poem.
The Lake Isle Of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.