Et tu, Brute?

Yes, even I now have a blog. I do not, however, self-identify as a “blogger.” Accordingly, I ask that you kindly respect my right to self-definition by referring to me as a “person who blogs.” Thank you, both sincerely and sardonically.

The title of this blog comes from a rather obscure Frost poem called “To Earthward,” my love of which is apparently and unfortunately shared by the most insufferable airbag I have ever met, namely Robert Pinsky, former poet laureate of the United States. The poem:

—

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things
The flow of—was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

—

I am still young, but I fear age.

Also, I sprinkle my writing with pretentious allusions, mostly to dead white males. It’s a tic, and I’m working on it.