the month of may is come, and apparently the annual academic madness is
intensifying, as is its right.
and so, after some attempts to figure out the differences between russian and english terminology and methods for poetry analysis. (and [insert the appropriate expletive here] can the russians convolute terminology and analysis, can they indeed.)
and so i wake up on sunday morning, all dizzy and and all that. an the reason for me waking up, of course, is the alarm, but the alarm luckily disrupts this dream:
i am in some sort of L-space, with books and text fragments everywhere. and i am observing poetry meters at various stages of … shall i call it existence?
the dactyls are stuck in the wall by the unstressed syllables, and cannot get out, fidget as they will.
two iambic feet are looking lost and distraught as they cannot unite because they are missing some other feet.
and then there is the pentameter, ready to blow up.
trochees attack me, weiged down by stresses, in a cloud not unlike that of gnats.
as i am waving and flapping about to get rid of the trochees, i see the anapest.
it looks like a huge green(ish, with spots) caterpillar (of the sort that moves with throwing its front forward, and then folding the middle up as the back end is drawn up), and is moving purposefully along the edge of the L-space. and some spondees are stuck to its hide.
and my last thought is – why can’t this anapest shake the spondees, they look like so much dirt and nuisance.
and then i wake up. with a taste of poetic sawdust in my mouth.