The Bad Poetry Hour

[nockergeek]

One benefit of packing up a room to declutter it is that you rediscover old things that you'd forgotten you'd kept. Something I found on my desk is my old poetry journal, from back in my college days when I was an English major with delusions of talent. I can't say that any of it is terribly good - it's full of the imagined profundity and tortured

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[anonymous]

You know, that's not half bad. It sets up a dichotomy, and explores on a very small stage the difference that maturity makes. It seems to me that you addressed this theme circuitously when you gave your valedictory address at your high school graduation.

The question is--can you still tell a story? Have the intervening years diminished the sense of wonder that finds tangible substance in the action figures of the children? Are you becoming an adult, weighed down by concerns real and ominous, or is there a spark of the puckish left, just waiting to come out when the lights dim and the faerie realm draws close?

I'm curious. I've got many years on you, but I suspect that there's still a more than middling bit of the child there. Maybe even some left in me, as the sun moves across the sky of my life, heading for that inevitable setting in the west.