Plenty of poetry,the happiness of love,helping others

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
― W.B. Yeats

Well I read all sorts of poetry yesterday afternoon and all this morn,from the hopeless to the heavy.Oh damn if I didn't want to be a poet after reading it all,to strike the best words in the best order.But nothing comes much to me,my memory is so shoddy and worse now that when I want to write on the tragic beauty of someone's face no divine analogy comes to me even though I know it deep down and from cursory readings.So I wait for poetry I don't write it,if anything swims up then I'm pleased.I imagine myself in some other life,all heads up and a poet saying perculiar things at parties,it's a pretty thought.Pretty sounds like such a docile thing.Well I'd be perfectly happy to be docile,there's something so feminine and free about it.

I thought about love triangles too,I find myself sort of in some strange split between what comes first and what comes after.I don't know,I love him ardently I want to sit with him in our house reciting poems to one another and throw off everything that doesn't please us,just behave real careless!.I am in the mood for cooking maybe some new recipes, a pinch of this,a pinch of that,I had a lovely pumpkin soup yesterday with a dash of cream.But I want to conjure up poems even more than meals, I suddenly find the poets life so much to be reckoned with and so romantic.I want to be like rosamund Lehmann, only I'd go to Oxford instead,study old Norse poetry and then talk about flowers fainting in their own fragrance.

Oh I want him today,I want to say to him "“Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove”, I feel happy that all the poems I read play on me because of love.But others mesmerise me too,just because I like the way the words are arranged and how they sound together and if they mean anything,that's just as well.I never wanted to be a poet when I was young, though I wrote poetry.I loved writing above everything else, but was not really that compelled in a dedicated way toward anything,I had a myriad passions.Red is the only thing I've felt certain on,and my Celtic studies too I felt deep duty toward.

Decided I need to do something about dear little African babies with their big eyes,starving to death,can you imagine the gnawing endless want.it's just an utter disgrace and so I'm going to start sponsoring.Forty dollars buys them peanut bars that can sustain them for ten weeks.But I believe in long term solutions,tribal ways,not just throwing funds at the problem.But any help is so needed.Oh those poor little babies.
Oh can you bear it when you see people buying handbags for four thousand dollars,while a baby dies for want of a cracker.Well I cannot save the world,I serve the world in other ways sometimes the poet feeds the starved soul as they feed the mouth.