Newspapers / Montreat College Student Newspaper / March 11, 2009, edition 1 / Page 2
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EDITORIALS From the Editors Desk Chelsea R. Bober It s almost midnight on a March night as I write this, and I’m comforted by shadows. Some nights, I see things in the shad ows that frighten me, and often my imagination—or perhaps my vanity— convinces me that evil men lurk in those shadows waiting to murder me in a cruel and leisurely fashion. But tonight, I am awake and I hear songs in my ears, and I am convinced this time of the sanctity all around me. The shadows want songs. I was reading many things tonight. Waiting for dinner to be picked up, I snuck into a book store and picked up four books—a new copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, an old copy of The Screwtape Letters, a ratty book called Filthy Shakespeare (that I had no business picking up, but I picked up none theless) and Diana Gal- badon’s Outlander. A bit of horror, a bit of horrific truth, a bit of horrific filth, and a bit of not-nearly-so- bad-as-it-might-be histori cal romance, you might say. I came home and read '-X - SUmitiM CtSyt'i hmlmt Montreal College Box 839 Montreal, NC 28757 (828) 669-8012, ext. 3675 mcwhetstone@gmaiI.com Contrihuting.Phntnigraphcn Outlander for a bit, but by the time that Claire ended up, against her will, in the friendship and company of the red-haired Jamie, I realized I needed purpose. So I read some poetry. But in the importance and noise of to-morrow When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse, And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed. And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom, A few thousand will think of this day As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. I cannot stress enough how much those final two lines of that stanza of WH. Auden’s “In Memory of WB. Yeats” struck me. Reading aloud, as I often do with poetry, in my husky and quite- sexiful post-cold voice, I read them into reality, and my ears pricked, my heart considered and my writer’s soul felt like it had finally heard what it had waited for. For those who know me, do your best to ■N “As ir(^ ircHty, Ariiicia Adkins Asheley Craig “Bathsbcba” Bethany Carmichael Caleb Holbeins Carlic Howard Cbelsea Bober Howard FLsher Jacob Owens Jeremy Phipps Jim Dahlin Mandi Pike Pascal Milner .Sophie Allen Athletic PR Jacob Qwens Joanna King Nannettc Howard The Whetstone is published monthly while school is in session. Tlie views exprcs.sed in thi.s publication are not necessarily the views of Monireat College or its staff. All submissions become the property of The Whetstone. Funding for this paper is provided by our advertisers and the Student Activities budget. Please direct any questions or comments to the editor in chief at mcwhetstonet^gmail.com. S(F (^tL& m/UV )) Page 2 March 11, 2009 think of my voice, usually so brisk and lilting and smiling, as a softer, more reverent voice, weighted but not burdened with throaty texture. When I knew little of poetry, my favorite poem was “^^en We Two Parted” by Lord Byron. I thought it dreadfully romantic, and I knew, for some reason, that I liked the drama and the way it sounded all nice-like. Perhaps I am arrogant, but I am keenly grateful for my greater exposure to poetry. As I’ve been learn ing in Literary Criticism (and as Auden himself once wrote), poetry can be merely memorable speech, memorable words. Poetry doesn’t have to be perfect meter and perfect rhyme, or even perfect imagery or perfect sentiment—it is something felt. Something remembered. Something of power to the soul, somehow. I only wish that, when I took Poetry Writing in Spring 2007, we had delved into literary theory and not just poetic form. I as much as the next writer appreciates new devices— a villanelle, for example, is a unique and entrancing thing. I of course fancy elegies, because almost everything I write captures more of the mourning of life than the joys. I had great success with my pastoral and my ballad, but my sonnet was en tirely falsified, because I had nothing profound to say. Perhaps some of the pressure to be j^rofound would have been taken off me and the other stu dents, had we realized that grand and new insight was not required. What is so grand, new, insightful, and profound about Auden’s line? “A few thousand will think of this day, as one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.” Indeed, there is nothing profound! There is hardly any beauty to the line, there is hardly any proper rhythm—but there is something that reminds. A day when one did something slightly unusu al—it catches the quirking edges of my life. Perhaps the day I wore no makeup and still felt gorgeous. Perhaps the day I listened to nothing but opera. Per haps the day that I spent all morning blind. I could not tell you a date, or even a record of precise events. I have the impression in my memory and that is enough. Perhaps just like the day that Gregory Peck died, or Ronald Reagan, or Kurt Vonnegut. We have the memory the feel ing, but not the detail. But does that really matter? To a poet, it would not. To Yeats or Auden it would not. To me it does not at all, and that is fortunate, considering my poor _ memory. There is so much poetry in shadow, and so much shadow in poetry. Just like all things in life and the realm of experience, I feel a true sense of rejoic ing in what is and what can be and what may not but might be. I’ve said for most of my grown life—at least since I was fourteen or fifteen—that I cared not what was hap pening, as long as life was happening. It’s a right blessing, I must admit, that God has given me this sense of all things being sacred and alive. I recall that almost as soon as I became a Christian, I told Him, well aware of Him and myself, that I was prepared to accept whatever life He intended for me, if it meant His glory. If He wanted me to be unhappy all my life, I would embrace it as duly as I would a charmed life. In return for this promise (or perhaps I made this promise because of this). He has given me such eyes for life. Like I said, my heart is ready for what is and what can be and what may not but might be. The shadows. The poetry. Is there not holiness in words? Is there not holi ness in the play of shadow and lamplight and the texture of dry winter skin on the backs of fingers lit by a laptop’s glow? Those words belong to God. Those shadows belong to God. Those wintry hands belong to God. Those silly romance novels with strapping Highland lads and cynical British ladies belong to God. Those days when one does something slightly unusual, and those days when one’does noth ing unusual at all, belong to God—and all is sacred.
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