Poems by edna st vincent millay about death

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poems by edna st vincent millay about death

Hope for the Flowers by Trina Paulus

A girlfriend gave me this book once.

At the time, I was living on an island of about two hundred people, teaching English. A foolish, miserable task--the kind of good-for-you intervention bound up in so many good intentions that the inevitable crass exploitation and inadequate resourcing and nonexistent long-term vision and full-on horseshit stupidity seem, in hindsight, a necessary cosmic counter-balancing. Ostensibly, I was teaching English and helping the other English teachers improve curriculum. Instead, the other English teachers wised up--let the fucking American handle this shit, and lets hit the lagoon, while the fishing is fine--and I struggled to piece together an elementary curriculum for non-English speakers whod never heard anyone fluent in English speak. No television, except when the local generator was fired up, and the vhs hooked in, so that we could watch Best of the Best and Best of the Best 2 for a quarter. Two or three radios, which only got Armed Forces Network. One communication radio, intermittently functioning, which I got on once a week to talk to pals distributed around the islands over 40,000 some square miles. I got mail once a week, if the plane showed up, if the weather was good, if I actually got any mail. I could run around the island, by which I mean quite literally I could run around the island. We periodically hit a dry patch where few fish came in, and breadfruit werent in season, so we ate canned food and rice and coconuts, and when the canned food ran out we ate rice and coconuts. I lost about 60 pounds. I sank into periodic depressions. I certainly got along with everyone, and drank tons of instant coffee hanging out with the guys, but I wasnt really connecting -- except with one guy, a really great person who I was starting to become good friends with, and then he died of tuberculosis. Those periods of depression became more like exclamation points.

Twice a year, during the two years I was there, I got into the main island. (Lets describe that in some other post.) During those trips, I drank excessively. Took up smoking despite having never had any interest in smoking (even leaping straight to Kool Menthols, cause as I believe Denis Leary put it if you inhale excessively on a Menthol it feels like your eyes are bleeding). Stayed out to all hours. Fell in love with everyone I met. And at the end of one stay, I began dating (okay, lets call it dating as well as dating) a very nice, sweet, good-intentioned English teacher like myself. We had a whirlwind of hyperbolic romantic passion, before we both headed to our respective islands.

Months passed. Mail, infrequent, the occasional too-public radio conversation. I had been there... oh, maybe 18 months. I was seriously losing it. And I wrote this sweet, wonderful, well-intentioned woman a cri de coeur, a howl of anguish and existential fear and self-loathing ... and she sent me this book. Oh, she also sent me a very moving, sweet, well-intentioned letter, explaining what the book meant, and how it might help me. She really was a great person. But I read this book and wanted to immediately begin gassing hippies. I turned from self-loathing into a fairly aggressive other-loather. I realized that this task Id taken on really wasnt for me. A couple weeks later, I left the island and the gig, for good.

We broke up, too. I wasnt even sure how to say anything ... the book flabbergasted me. But, in a way, I guess, it saved me.
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Published 07.12.2018

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Throughout much of her career, Pulitzer Prize-winner Edna St., A party girl poet. A sexually adventurous bisexual.

This poem is in the public domain. Materials for Teachers Materials for Teachers Home. Poems for Kids. Poems for Teens. Lesson Plans. Teach this Poem. Poetry Near You.

Or, and this is radical, find a library and ask for a 'collected works" of Edna Millay. It will have an index of titles and another of first lines. That's how you find a poem. Edna st Vincent Millay is a killer. I am trying to find the poem by Edna St.

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