It looks like we'll be back in business soon -- hooray! I'm running behind right now, so I'll just leave you with two poems I wrote recently. My Renaissance Poetry class is definitely leaving its mark.
Have you noticed that a poet takes up pen
Most often when it seems his heart is breaking?
Anguished lines from poor, tormented men
Poured forth in a midnight's fevered making
On tear-stained sheets, unedited, and then
Read to each friend in voices rough and shaking.
"Woe and despair!" they cry, then write again
'Til you long to shake them, force their waking
From such fevered dreams. I will not use you so;
He loves me still! My house is filled with mirth
And gaiety; and even if I know
That he grows restless (soon I think he'll go),
The world is rich in men of higher worth.
I shall move on, and sing no songs of woe.
THE LOVER SPEAKS, AGAIN
What can I do to shape myself the kind
Of man you want, the kind for whom you'd stay?
Shall I turn sullen, brooding, darkly fey --
The type that had you left would have pined
Away to nothingness? You might then find
You liked me somewhat brighter. Speak, love, say
Whom you desire. I could be shining, gay
With dazzling wit -- wouldst love me for my mind
Alone? Silent still. Your silence speaks --
Pained eyes averted from this wretched blight;
These sunken depths. I have become a sham,
Disgust myself. This weakness in me reeks;
Yet still I vow, "I could have shone so bright
If only you had loved me as I was."