I keep pushing, push that poem along. Then the next one pops unbidden into sight. Grinding the poems of other poets into brain dust results in picturesque mobs of detail someday synthesized.
And then I read Chaucer and I want to just drop everything and read him instead. So musical, so weird, such cunning words, so familiar and unfamiliar:
Of al my lyf, syn that day I was born,
So gentil ple in love or other thyng
Ne herde nevere no man me beforn,
Who that hadde leyser and connyng
For to reherse hire chere and hire spekyng;
And from the morwe gan this speche laste
Tyl dounward drow the sonne faste.
-The Parliament of Fowls
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