It's way too much fun to be good for you- we had a great show tonight.
I turned in my packet for the Virginia Commission for the Arts. There were eight postal boxes on the floor full of them. Eight. I took a sideways glance and saw some familiar names. Imagine how many poems that is- say 150 people applied, put in an average of 20 poems each (I had 16).
That's 4,500 poems. If half are awful , that's still 2,225 poems. Let's say 10% of those are good and have a prayer. That's 223 poems in the competition (assuming I make it to that cut- and other than the fact the judging is not blind, I see no real reason why I couldn't).
Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be Blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home,
Rest and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heav'n.
Alexander Pope An Essay on Man
of course- it's also from Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer- for what it's worth.
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