"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow...?"

Oh gosh, so because today is the last day of April, and also of National Poetry Month, I give you the gift of T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land. April is the cruelest month. Hyacinth girl. This card, which is blank. Why have you not already skipped ahead to the link? Really, do yourself a favor and read this. Or reread this. (Am I blogging to myself? Will I be my own audience? Probably.) Seriously though, at least Part I! I promise that Eliot will break your heart in beautiful ways. And you will be all the better for it.

And speaking of beauty, I am going to see John Ashbery tonight with my advanced poetry writing workshop! (Har, har.) I am not one for writer's block, but gosh, I've produced nothing of substance lately. As such, I should probably be attempting to spin equisite threads of verse right now instead of click-clacking away at this dribble. Alas... though maybe both gentlemen, along with this lovely weather, will inspire me to write some good stuff. Okay, bye!