Passa ai contenuti principali

In Class in Rome

In Class in Rome
By Romulus

Something of the Renaissance
Is on that page, inside this book.
Such lovely, lifelike lines, you see?
You’d like it if you’d only look.

Across the flowing Tiber
Begins to swing a booming bell
As if to say; “Here is the spot
Where wept the painter, Raphael.”

The voice drones on
I think to yell:
Why don’t you show
Instead of tell!

Commenti

Donna-Katie ha detto…
Can we say "puerile and singsong", my dear Canuck? :)
Anonimo ha detto…
Oh come on Donna there's no need to be so hard on the boy... What we are dealing with here is a young man's attempt to emulate Dr. Seuss...and to say such things as "puerile" and "singsong", he might give up and never write again..............hhhmmmmm
The Dude ha detto…
Wait a minute...are you saying that rhyming "yell" with "tell" is puerile and singsong? You clearly don't have any artistic or poetic taste. Go back to school. It'll do you good.
Donna-Katie ha detto…
Your mom goes to school.
Donna-Katie ha detto…
"he might give up and never write again..............hhhmmmmm"

Which, clearly, would be a tragedy along the lines of Mount Vesuvius, world hunger, or the Beatles breaking up. :)
Donna-Katie ha detto…
But not quite as sad as Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. :(
Follow my Whimsy ha detto…
I thought it was cute, and not at all puerile and singsong.
Anonimo ha detto…
Your right Donna. And it would also not be as sad as TomKat....nothing is as sad as TomKat! :-)
Anthony Smitha ha detto…
Oh, Romulus...

[stares off into a void, looking deep in thought...]

Sorry... I spaced out. I meant to say that your poetry caused great thoughts within my brain, deep sweeling felings within my heart. Oh, I wish I had words...

But I'm not a poet,
And I think you know it.
Donna-Katie ha detto…
You're a darned sight more talented a poet than this Canadian hack. :)

Post popolari in questo blog

Be distracted

Some of you may have noticed that there haven't been many updates on this blog for some time. Besides the fact that I one day woke up and suddenly realized that perhaps I should get a life, there's also the fact that we in Rome are immersed in the midst of finals, while trying to balance the difficult task of having as much fun as humanly possible. This blog has fallen a tad to the wayside. And so, to distract you from the fact that there haven't been very many pretty photos lately to allow you to vicariously live the awesome lives that we Romans lead and to alleviate some of the burden of your own mind-numbing existence, I thought perhaps it would do well to distract you all with this one. Julian has admitted that it is appropriate that he pay penance for not putting his own two cents into this blog on a more regular basis, but questions whether or not promulgating this photo to the world might be a little too severe. I think it is appropriate. Clint's suffering is pur...

The Sequel

The Confessions of Julian Ahlquist (A continuation of the post by Romulus below. Read previous post first in order for this one to possibly make sense.) By Remus I contemplated abandoning the cursed suitcase at a different terminal and having that one shut-down and swarmed with bomb-squads and airplane delays rather than our terminal, so that we would be just fine. But then I was overcome by the small residue of conscience I had left, as most of it had been eroded away by violent thoughts against the French. My heart oscillated in painful gasps as I surveyed the Airport battleground. To me, this suitcase was worse than a bomb. I wished it was a bomb, so then it would blow up and disappear and leave me alone. But no, it was a normal suitcase. It wouldn’t go away. As I headed toward an alternate terminal, I threw myself at the mercy of the airport ticket agents, saying, “Excuse me, I thought this was my friend’s bag, but it isn’t. What should I do? It’s...

Julian's Rambler Article

Swiss Cheese By Remus I woke up at 5:15 AM at the oppressive dictatorship of my alarm clock, but as the reign of passion had dethroned my reason, kicking it down the stairs in a heartless regicide, I stabbed the meddlesome clock in the dark, silencing the prophet and his admonitions, closing my eyes to its lifeless corpse to enjoy a day of quiet, to refuse such undue demands of penance. An unseen hour passed. I woke up again in a gasp, veering my eyes again to my advisor’s silenced pleas, seeing for the first time the error of my ways, but it was too late. He was dead. “John,” I addressed, this time to my roommate, another advisor and moreover my master. “John. When were we suppose to wake up to go the Vatican?” In lethargic resistance, similar to mine, with his head engulfed in a pillow, characteristic of Jalsevac’s sleeping posture, he answered in a muffled filter, “Uh ... 5:40.” “Oh, no,” I noted, in peril seasoned with a pinch of despair. “It’s 7:15. We’re late. They’ve left...