Po-etry

Po-etry, cuz you see, it's po. Like, poor. But more in the vernacular spirit. Yup, yup. I ain't  gon' be a linguistics major for nothing, baby.
Oh dearie me. This week has been truly horrible. I've had at least one test every single day of the week (except for Monday). Just so the future generations can know my pain and battles through the trials and tribulations surrounding me, I shall endeavor to provide an accurate transcript of my week right here and right now. Here tis:
Monday: Poetry response due (AP Lit), Unit 3 essay (Art History)
Tuesday: Crime and Punishment questions due (Lit), unit 1 homework due (AP Econ), Unit 3 FRQs (Art History)
Wednesday: Poetry questions due (Lit), Unit 3 multiple choice (Art History), Unit 1 FRQs (Econ), calc quiz (calc duh)
Thursday: Physics homework due, Unit 1 multiple choice (Econ), in-class essay (Lit)
Friday: Calc test (on the hardest chapter ever), Unit 1 multiple choice part two (Econ), vocab test (Lit-very easy, but still), physics test, auditions for Pie Jesu solo in choir, giant scholarship packet due.
And there ye have it, folks. That's my dismal life. I think I'm missing some stuff, but that's the general gist. Damn, girl, it's like finals week all up in here. I feel like I shall never be rested again. I almost can't wait until college, cuz I feel like it might actually be less work. Or will it? It might not be. What if I have to schedule all my classes at six in the morning or something? Or what if I can't get the classes I need and I have to stay at school for nine years and never graduate and accrue massive amounts of student loans that I can never pay off? That wouldn't be an optimal thing. I think I'd rather take the 6 AM class. Hopefully, my AP credit will help me. If I go to Ohio State, I'll have like 50 credits (if they accept them all, but I didn't see anything to the contrary, so I'm hoping they do). That's like a full year. I could start as a sophomore, and even if my credits didn't go to help me graduate (which I'm not sure they would), they would still help me get the classes I need, I think, or at least according to what I read on the internet. And we know that everything on the internet is always factual and correct.
You know, I've decided I really like poetry. Ugh, that sounds so plebeian. I mean, everyone and their uncle Ted professes to like poetry nowadays. It's de rigeur. You just have to have an inordinate love for poetry, or they'll kick you out of all the nice cafes and hipster barrios, If you don't know who T.S Eliot is, it's cause for complete and utter scorn and rejection, and if you venture anything against free verse, you might as well just brand yourself a heretic and run away to the furthest reaches of the globe immediately. No one needs an uncultured person around, and you should know it. But that's not what I mean by liking poetry. I don't like anything modern, for the most part, because it's too meaningful, or rather, it tries too hard to be meaningful. Like, I mean, if you want to express some kind of despairing sentiment, it doesn't make it any more poignant to write it in all lower case letters or with syntax that looks like a cow sat on it, or backwards in mirror image script, or whatever it is these crazy kids think up. If you're a talented poet, you can make something that people will enjoy reading that will still carry your meaning through. I'm not saying it all has to rhyme or be in iambic pentameter or anything, but when you start writing masterpieces like this, you know you have something wrong:

the. catsatona wall with-the milk. .it looked like the moon, i like moonS*

but. the moon constant no! not constant not constant constant constant. WhaT is CONsTaNT.
Bliss. moon and stars togethe.r are 4 me & you too.
with a Runningskippingflying Over the Moon! me&you
.the cat sat on a walL
And then it's supposed to represent the triumph of the human spirit over the prurient urges of nature. I mean, really now, I think they're just messing with us. Like, I bet there's some secret society somewhere, like the Illuminati of the poetry world, and they set the agenda for everything that goes on. There's probably some Grand High Poet of the world, and he has a long beard and flowing robes and looks like Gandalf after he turned white and he's in charge of everything. He probably thinks it's funny when one of the minions produces some tripe that's supposed to decry the struggles of the rich man in a lower class world and is written using nothing but punctuation, and everyone thinks it's really deep and buys it so that they can look cultured when they go to Poetry Night at the local bookstore. How else can we explain this movement towards unintelligibility? I bet now that I have it all figured out, some hitman is going to sneak into my room in the middle of the night (or even more "middle" than it is now) and stab me with an ampersand as I sleep. Then he can write a poem about it, which no one will understand, because it will have nothing in it but synonyms for the word "disquietude." But at least I will have been the impetus for artistic creation. Just call me Magica the Muse, that's my new name. But anyway. Where was I before I started going on about how terrible modernity is? Ah, yes. So, I really like poetry. We're doing it in lit now, and I love to sit around reading the little poetry sampler we got from the textbook room. It's a really terrible waste of time, actually, because it sucks me in, and I keep thinking I can just read one more poem, but then I finish it and feel like it was too short, and the whole cycle repeats. But I really do love it so. I really like A.E Housman. I want to get his book that he wrote, because I haven't yet found a poem of his I didn't read about five times in a row, and I haven't gotten tired of any of them yet. I quote Reveille to myself every morning when I get out of bed, which makes me sound like a huge nerd, but dearie me and bless my soul, a nerd is what I am. And it's really quite motivational, too, I mean, it just makes you feel like if you slept in and missed the morning, you would have committed some heinous crime against nature sensibility. So it does help me get up and get ready for school (though not necessarily on time). You know, the guy in that one poem without a name (but we called it Terence, This is Stupid Stuff) sounds so adorable. He's all poetic and smart, and he gets drunk with his friends, and keeps telling them poems that they don't really want to hear, and he's all thoughtful and everything, and he's all into friendship, and he's so realistic about life. So adorable! I also like the name Terence. It's cute (though I would not want to be named that). Could any of these meaningful, doleful, modern poets put that much personality into a character in their poems? For that matter, could they even have a character in their poems? The poet is always the speaker for them, unless they're channelling the spirit of a broken-down refrigerator or something. Well, I suppose that's nice in its way. Refrigerators deserve love too. Still, I hope that someday people will rediscover a love for sonnets.
I went to Barnes and Noble today, hoping to sit around by myself and read The Economist, but I ran into Sonia. Then we had to hang out the entire night. Ai-ya. Why do I have friends? Maybe I should move to Siberia like Raskolnikov. Oh, but then Sonia would follow me, because that is what people named Sonia do. Hmm. This is a difficult thing indeed. I guess there's no hope for it, I shall have to go off and become a wandering hermit (if that's possible) and wander around the world solving crimes. People will call me G.K because I will be the tattered outlaw of the earth, and I will have ancient, crooked, will. Well, now, that sounds like the future for me. Maybe I will even get to have a pet penguin someday.
Oh dear. It's 4 in the morning. Well, then. I'm going to bed. (That was really abrupt, I apologize.) Goodnight, then, ladies, goodnight, everyone! (Or whatever it is that Ophelia says when she is crazy) Or rather, good morning. Damn.