Rossetti had the paper bag down long before Fiona.

Despite an unfortunate hiatus that has now been resolved, fecundity abounds.

Emerson wrote that there are few things sweeter than when the scholar realizes that "one nature wrote and the same reads [...] There is some awe mixed with joy of our surprise , when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul." Once again, I will reiterate that poetry is not my forte. Given my unfortunate disposition of being both overly-literal and having a rather testy attention span at best, I have not the discipline for that particular endeavor. But bravo to those of you who do.

In any case, I rarely dabble in poetry unless required. And I certainly wouldn't dabble in Victorian poetry unless forced (stop talking about your damn laurels already - no one cares.) but I was working on my assigned reading for one of my classes today when I read a poem by Christina Rossetti that was so strangely pertinent to my personality I almost couldn't believe I was reading it. Apparently, Rossetti was a bit of a feminist commitment-phobe herself but, unlike me, she was a talented poet capable of expressing her emotions without the occasional uncouth eructation of swear words. Ah, to be eloquent.

I give you, "Promises Like Pie-Crust":

Promise me no promises,
So will I not promise you:
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go:
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one:
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass,
And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again:
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain.
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less:
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess.

Hunger hurts, but starving works, people. She's far more decipherable than contemporaries like Dickinson, so there's always the paranoia of feeling a bit trite for liking something that's so straightforward in nature, but despite it's hyper-literal style there's still a good bit of meat in there for a person to really think about. A cursory glance over it was enough to convince me that I ought to read through slowly, and it was well worth it, I assure you. The poem is essentially one of self-preservation, which is a feeling you can really only have if you have loved before. She's ultimately fatalistic, but can you really blame her? She has a solid argument. Something tells me Rossetti would have probably listened to Fiona Apple.

For further thoughts on the matter, listen to Joanna Newsom's 'Peach Plum Pear.' Brill.