Reed is back tomorrow.
Good, I say. Good. I don’t care for this ‘generating content’ lark.
How about another spot of juvenalia, while she can’t burst in and stop me? She wrote this one when she was barely 18, and falling in love with her future husband. Also blond, by the way.
Everyday I love your absent image
Hurts dully; and I have never cried for a man before,
I have never cried,
Though you are missing,
Without you I am only myself,
As self-sufficient as glass, not
Needing an image to reflect,
Without beholding being nothing.
And I burn for your superimposition, I
Burn for the hands and voice
That make me ring through like a glass bell that
Ring me like a stone into clear water,
To frighten silver fishes out,
Away from the sun-pierced centre,
Away from the shiver of bubbles,
Away from the place where only we are
Necessary as air or water.
Reed has long since given up vers libre, as she now finds it affected and embarrassing (oh, she’s so going to kill me when she gets home!). Me, I don’t know. A certain lack of counting syllables and considering rhymes for ‘orange’ can be excusable, surely? In any case, whoever brings Walt Whitman into the argument first wins.
No yawping, barbaric or otherwise, by order of The Management