the waste land review//classics club

I’m not even sure what to say about this piece.  Halfway through, I checked the reviews on GoodReads and was surprised at the 5 star ratings.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised cause this is such a popular piece of American poetry…but still.  I figured I had to be the one with the problem.

CAUSE I COULDN’T MAKE HEADS OR TAILS OF THIS POEM!

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Maybe it was because I read it on my Kindle and that might have messed with the lines, the flow of which are, of course, hugely important.  Maybe it was too modern??  The imagery was lost on me.  It jumped around and went in weird directions.  I don’t know, I just was not feeling it at all!  Sorry Mr. Elliot, but if someone were to ask me what your great work was about, I’d have no idea how to answer!

Any of you T. S. Elliot fans out there have any comments as to what I was missing in my Waste Land experience?  I just was not impressed at all :(.

On a bit of a lighter note, this book was not only on my Classics Club list, it was apart of A Modern March, and also counted toward the Nerdy Non-Fiction Reading Challenge 2013!  3 birds, 1 stone.  Booyah!

i write in the laundromat//poetry

Great piece by Marcy Sheiner (=

I Write in the Laundromat

I write in the laundromat.
I am a woman
and between wash & dry cycles
I write.

I write while the beans soak
and with children’s voices
in my ear. I spell out words
for scrabble while I am writing.

I write as I drive to the office
where I type a man’s letters
and when he goes to lunch
I write.

When the kids go out the door
on Saturday I write
and while the frozen dinners thaw
I write.

I write on the toilet
and in the bathtub
and when I appear
to be talking
I am often writing.

I write in the laundromat
while the kids soak
with scrabbled ears
and beans in the office
and frozen toilets
and in the car
between wash & dry.

And your words
and my words
and her words
and their words
and I am a woman
and I write in the laundromat.

the road not taken//poetry

I love this piece =)

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost