Week Fourteen: Goals & Poetry Month Day 1

Last night was not what I expected. I told you that I was going to finish A Room of One’s Own and reach the halfway point in The Girl Who Played With Fire. That was totally my plan. I made tea and curled up on my bed with my books. And then I had this huge emotional meltdown because I missed my girlfriend. I spent the night crying and then this morning everything just exploded. I won’t bore you with details, but we got into a huge fight. I don’t think we’ve ever had a fight this big before. There was a lot of cursing and crying…hours of crying, which resulted in insane headaches.

Anyway, we’re better now (still healing, but at least we’re not fighting anymore) but, needless to say, I didn’t get a lot of reading in.

That being said, I am still three books behind schedule, according to Goodreads. Speaking of which, check out the footer of my blog (aka scroll alllllllll the way down) and you’ll see my “currently reading” bookshelf from Goodreads!

This week, my goals are as follows:

1. Finish The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson

2. Read A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

3. Read Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

I’m really hoping I can do this. Academically speaking, I’m pretty busy this week. I have a 7-8 page paper due for my English class, a Sociology exam, a source analysis for History, a presentation, and a campaign to work on. Phew! Wish me luck!

It’s April, and officially National Poetry Month! Here’s a poem by one of my favorite writers, Sylvia Plath! I’d really encourage you to find out more about the poets I post. Plath also wrote one of my favorite books, The Bell Jar. I hope that by sharing poetry on my blog, more people will appreciate this form of writing.

Blackberrying, by Sylvia Plath

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,   
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.   
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,   
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me   
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock   
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space   
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths   
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

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