I’m reading a Wordsworth poem for my seminar, and as I read the second stanza, a “reply” played out onto the page through my pen—I, the happy medium.
From Wordsworth’s Expostulation and Reply:
“‘Where are your books? —that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.”
my reply:
“eyes closed to inner light
bereft of spirit’s sight
turn to dusty books
fingering dry pages with
wet and yearning sighs.”
I think that’s a response to the expostulating friend, not to Wordsworth, but it was a sort of happy unexpected flow of words that was fun.
Muser's log: Stardate Indefinite 