A Little Paper Reflection

IMG_3205Look at that massive stack of books with your little pink notebook on the top, open like the bud of a daisy and crawling with notes. Even those huge volumes by writers with high-brow names like Humphrey and Sacheverell did not grasp everything, nor succeed in having the last word on the subject.

Yes, even the most pompous, satisfyingly-thick, black-bound biographies have gaps in their scholarship and may fade into dust-gathering anachronisms. “Of the making of many books, there is no end,” after all.

But isn’t that comforting, in a way? And wonderfully liberating? If those authors you so admire could not write everything in 500 pages, why do you feel the pressure to do so in 20? Or 30? Even 60?

No, do not worry about saying everything. After all, your paper is only a small daisy in a vast forest of former trees, books upon books upon books that you can traverse by footnote but never fully explore.

But isn’t that exciting? After all, forests need flowers too, and you will never run out of trails to investigate, paths to forge.

So write what you can. Tend to your small bit of knowledge and watch it grow up among the leaves of books and the dust of authors past.

Graveyard Library

Upon finishing up my finals and juries today, I found my mind in a muddle, so I did the natural thing: I went exploring. In doing such, I happened upon a cemetery and spent a great deal of time wandering and wondering. To any outside observer, I was just another a college girl in an ugly Christmas sweater creeping around for no apparent reason, but really, I was researching. After all, one can learn- or at least imagine- so many things in graveyards, most of which are, surprisingly, more poignant than frightening. And, as many writers would agree, inspiration is always to be found in such places. For example…

 

Graveyard Library

I went walking through a library.

Well, a graveyard actually.

But both are full of tales,

And wandering down the aisles- or trails-

I read the spines of leather-bound tomes,

Or, rather, faded tombstones.

Between the lines (or dates)

I am left to guess the fates

Of the characters once living.

 

Over here on my left,

Paule Walde lays at rest.

But why so apart from his wife?

Marie Walde is right there

Though it seems quite unfair.

Where their stories separate in life?

.

Susie Harlem “mother”

And beside her another,

With a stone more elaborate than she.

Was this other loved better

Or simply loved richer?

How small Susie’s script seems to be.

.

And Shirley Ann Southern

Whose time came too sudden,

Plucked like the daisies that bloom here.

She stayed only a day,

In 1940 May.

How sad yet sweet this short page dear.

.

Shirley’s would-be playmate

Naps a few yards away.

Beneath a lone fragile sapling.

Its leaves laugh in the wind

But cannot grief amend.

A short poem, barely a scribbling.

.

Then James of Scotland and

Janine of Switzerland-

Only a marriage date printed.

Why no mention of death?

Do they yet use their breath,

To write a love uncompleted?

.

Then there’s a poor sister

And as she’s the elder,

Waits for her sibling patiently.

But the girl above ground

Tired of hand-me-downs,

Will finish her sequel separately.

.

Miss Charlotte was likely

The town’s brightest beauty.

For without fail as the years pass,

Bonny blue wildflowers

Same as those eyes of hers,

Peak up from the parchment of grass.

.

Strange indeed it might seem

Of all places to dream,

Libraries and graveyards are best.

But both only will grow

As time in its course flows.

And beneath covers and earth

Lies the past.