Well, today’s the last day of NaBloPoMo. I made it. Did you?
There were a few times that I didn’t have anything to say, or forgot to post until way late into the night, but you know, these things happen sometimes. I feel accomplished. Each word I type gives me a sense of glee to know that I actually finished something that I started. And I met all sorts of wonderful new people! I hope you all who started hanging around here will continue to do so. I’ll keep reading all of your lovely blogs because I thought they were so good.
Tomorrow is the big Conference day, and when it’s over, I’ll tell you all about what a mess it was putting it together, but for now, I’ve really got to get on this paper that I’m presenting for it tomorrow. I’ve been pouring over this poem for hours on end, and I’m making headway, but it’s fairly slow going. Things are, however, beginning to fall into place mentally, though; I’ve just got to start getting those ideas out of my head, off of my book and notebook, and into a word processor. After that? No sweat. 5-7 pages should just fall right out. I mean, I’ve done more prep work for this paper than I’ve done in a long time.
Also, I’ll post the paper here after a few months if I can’t get any takers for publication. The title is “Counting the Stars: A New Critical approach to Sir Philip Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella Sonnet 5.” If you’re interested, I can send it to you when I finish it, just comment and ask me.
Congratulations everyone for a job well done!
P.S. As a bonus, here’s the poem itself:
It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve
The, inward light; and that the heavenly part
Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart.
It is most true, what we call Cupid’s dart,
An image is, which for ourselves we carve;
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart,
Till that good god make Church and churchmen starve.
True, that true beauty virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,
Which elements with mortal mixture breed;
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made,
And should in soul up to our country move;
True; and yet true, that I must Stella love.
Enjoy!
