Some Yeats and Some Chocolate (Also, poetry)

I have been away from work this whole week - I am blaming the lapse in my routine for the lapse in my writing (here). The truth is, I have been focusing a lot more on my poetry lately. I am trying to write and edit about two poems a week, which is hard work for me. It takes several sessions of writing and editing BEFORE I share a poem with a trusted network of friends/readers/critics. Then there is another round of rewriting based on the feedback I get. Then there is the whole business of sending the poem out into the world, updating my submission spreadsheet (yes, I have a spreadsheet, it's very nerdy, but it works for me). And then there is the most annoying part - the waiting. I suppose, there is one other thing that is worse than waiting - it is when I select a row on my submission spreadsheet and highlight it in red - rejections, yes, they are most certainly the absolute worst thing about this whole writing business. No, nope, wait, I misspoke - the worst thing about this writing business is not writing at all. As long as I am writing, I am one (or several) rungs above the most unfavorable state. 

The sort-of good news is that I am sort-of back on Twitter (@noorulainnoor). My tweets are not exciting or entertaining yet, but I am working on it. I really don't get Twitter - I mean, I get it, but I am really not very good at expressing myself in 140 characters, and it's really a lot of pressure because I want to say something useful and intelligent. I know, I know, I am over-thinking it.

Anyway, it is February, and since this post is not about love, I am leaving you in the very capable hands of Mr. Yeats and with this parting advice: Forget laughter, chocolate is the best medicine, preferably dark, but milk will do in a pinch.

Brown Penny

William Butler Yeats

I WHISPERED, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.