The feel of coarse velvet,
aged paper,
the long drawn out kiss
between my thumb
and timeless ink.
I wish I was
a subtle thief too,
so that I may steal
those metaphors,
that diction,
this old way of speaking,
when language was
but a butterfly
wallowing in vanity.
- - -
I'm so in love with old poetry right now. We're reading all of these sonnets and poems written by dead guys in English 30 (AP). And I love how beautiful they make the language sound, I love the metaphors and all the techniques and devices. It makes me wish I was born in a time where language was beautiful.
There's also a very tiny reference to a poem I was assigned to close read and analyze in class. Sonnet VII, John Milton.
Not that my reference has anything to do with the sonnet or even John Milton himself, I just really liked the line. Well, maybe that's for you to decide. ;P
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You got skills JB. Enjoying your posts. I wish I had an English teacher like you described in your previous post. I did have one that was memorable. He wore a brown leather blazer, had a thick mustache and tinted glasses. He had a lot of rings, a scruffy voice and strutted when he walked. He always carried one of those silver metal briefcases. When he read Shakespeare, he used to change his voice up depending on the character and flicker the lights when he made thunder sounds. Later, I found a sci-fi novel he wrote called "Cadre One." This guy was the shit.
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