A few words on poetry, or I'm more of a romantic than I like to admit.

Before I begin, I need to say that few things make me happier than when the first thing I hear when I go to Pandora is a deep voice saying "You go girls." The music from "Hercules" is some of my favorite Disney music. I love Alan Menken.
And the next song that plays is "You've Got A Friend In Me." Pandora is so good to me sometimes.

Okay. Here are my words on poetry:
I enjoy reading it. I really do. One of our books for Seminar in Literature: Love and Friendship is The 100 Best Love Poems of All Time, edited by Leslie Pockell. I was just looking through it and found myself appreciating it more than I thought I would. When I first saw the book list I laughed to see this one.
My portfolio for last semester had a diary theme. Each section intro was a diary entry, and unfortunately they all started with me talking about how much I hate analyzing literature. I think I was most negative about studying poetry. I just think it's silly. Maybe it's because my poetry is primarily love poems without much hidden meaning, but I don't think it's necessary to discuss what the writer was trying to say. Just enjoy the art for what is in front of you. Let it be.

This book ranges from Emily Dickinson's passionate "Wild Nights!" to Sara Teasdale's more subtle "Those Who Love" to Robert Burns's "A Red, Red Rose." I have sung two different choral arrangements of this last poem, and I think it is beautiful. I enjoy love poems and I don't care who knows it.

But they always make me jealous. Anne Bradstreet wrote "To My Dear and Loving Husband" centuries ago, and I envy that love. I want someone to write about me they Hilaire Belloc wrote about "Juliet." "I Want to Breathe" (James Laughlin).

I write about this more often than I should. I probably come across as more desperate than I am. I am fairly confident in my singleness, but I wouldn't mind a change. I have a particular change in mind, but I will say nothing more about that.

I just hate to admit that I'm a romantic. In everything else I accept the harsh reality of life, and it's not as if I'm expecting my life to have the formula plot of a chick flick. I would hate that. I'm not a formula.
But I love the idea of being surprised with a bouquet from a Secret Admirer who takes a few weeks to reveal himself. (I realize that it would be terrible if it was someone I wasn't interested in. My feet are on the ground.) Flowers are my love language.

I just watched the newest episode of "Downton Abbey." I was less than surprised to find myself tearing up as Lady Mary came down the stairs in her wedding dress to greet her father and Mr. Carson. They way they all looked at each other was just too much for me. I cry so easily these days: at videos of flash mob engagement, at kind words from a friend, at Nehemiah, at anything that reminds me that I'm graduating and leaving Bethel.
And at poems that make me hope for a fierce, intentional, devoted, real, unpretentious, and pure love.
Like this one, "Wear Me" by Robert Kogan:

I want you to wear me
comfortably,
as you would a dress,
or the silver necklace that you wear
around your neck.
Comfortably, so that I am always
next to you:
but most important-
something you decide
each morning to select.

Ugh. Why did I think that a class on "Love and Friendship" was a good idea? I'll let you know when I find out.