On the same day we brainstormed the qualities of an English major, our discussion got me thinking (and writing):
The English major--the pleasure of reading and conversation--is much like the old days of poets and playwrights (although then they were exalted and I in turn am scoffed at), where the "pretentious" are only following their dreams and those looking down on them are secretly jealous we chose fulfillment of the soul rather than the body.
Then I made a self-assignment and wrote a nocturne for my poetry workshop:
Write a nocturne in the style of Walt Whitman's "A Clear Midnight," addressing a non-physical entity (apostrophe), while keeping the poem as brief as possible.
To
a Witch
At last the final moon ascends!
Come now before the light subsides
Lest all is lost—
Look!
Through the gaping window,
past the curtain dancing,
though
there is no wind
and I have not stirred since
the moon arose—
a figure appears.
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