My Poetry professor introduced me to him today in the book Vectors: Aphorisms and Ten-Second Essays. It’s lovely. I didn’t realize all of those scribblings of nothing I have could actually become something. And I love the idea that I’m writing ten-second essays. It just makes me happy inside. Here’s an excerpt from his book:
Pessimists live in fear of their hope, optimists in fear of their fear.
Music is the highest art, no question. But literature is a friendlier one. It depends on us more, bores us more quickly, can’t go on if we don’t, can’t stop saying what it means, can’t stop giving us something to forgive.
I imagine the best thing to call them would be prose poetry, though I’m not sure anyone is positive what they actually are, not even the author himself.
I love my poetry class, I usually do. It somehow gives me more creative outlet than a fiction course, even though I am exponentially better at story telling than necessarily evoking emotion. We had to do an exercise today, I wrote the following…
Scent of Home
The lights shine on the dredges
in the fountain: red, green,
The door of the coffee
shop swings, emitting puffs
of steam and people. Wind
a scarf around your neck, listening
to the carolers drone:
“Peace on Earth, Goodwill” —
around every corner.
It’s a royal
occasion in the Queen City.