I'm not officially joining the Holidalies project or anything, but I do try to update most days, and I figure I can try a little more conscientously this December. And in the process of thinking about that, I realized that I can at least post bits of The Poet and the Mathematician
every day -- the last one was about 30 pages long, and I suspect this one will be too. Which means we're only a day off, so today, here's a bonus page. We'll try to stay on schedule from this point forward. It's nice motivation for me to finish writing the thing too...I only have eleven pages so far.
It was an odd question. What is truth, to a poem? She wasn't sure, but it made the poet queasy, to think that maybe her poems didn't tell the truth. Maybe they told small white lies, out of kindness and a soft heart. Maybe they told giant whoppers, the kind that are just incredible enough to be believed. Maybe they avoided the embarrassing truth altogether, and focused on other matters entirely, so you wouldn't notice. When the poet thought about that possibility, her breakfast kelp did somersaults in her stomach.
It really couldn't be borne. Not for long.