|I should go home, but instead, I'm reading Edna St. Vincent Millay, and thinking of X-Files. I don't know if it's stupid or worse, but often when I read poetry (NOT, need I add, fan poetry), I imagine my BSOs reading it too...||
This is Fox, talking to the Stubborn Pectoral One:
not blind. I see with single eye
Your ugliness and other human's grace
I know the imperfection of your face,--
The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high
For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I
In loveliness, and cannot so erase
Its letters from my mind, that I may trace
You faultless, I must love until I die.
More subtle is the sovereignty of love:
So am I caught that when I say, "Not fair,"
'Tis but as if I said, "not here--not there--
Not risen--not writing letters." Well I know
What is this beauty men are babbling of;
I wonder only why they prize it so."
Indulging my M/K side for a moment--
This is the Mulder who actually slept with Krycek during Sleepless, and then is worse than mortified after he finds out:
being born a (hu)man and distressed
By all the needs and notions of the kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love or season
My scorn with pity,-- let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again."
This is Scully, to her dad:
does not bring relief you all have lied
Who told me time could ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him in the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,--so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him."
And one last one, with no fannish reason for it I can think of, but it scratches my itch for cruelty:
I loved you Wednesday,
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday--
So much is true.And why you come complaining
Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what
Is that to me?