It seems every time I get up the gall to post something new on here it takes the form of a poem, but I think it is such a beautiful contrast that poetry can be so concise and yet convey a deeper message than words written in prose. My father and I discussed yesterday that those possessions of ours which took the most time to be created have the greatest meaning for us. In other words, consider a photograph, which in most cases took only a split second to create; we ponder it for the equal split second and then move on to the next. However, should we find an old letter from a former girlfriend, from a parent, friend, or sibling; we treasure it as gold before us, savoring every word, and then reading it again and again. Prose is easy, poetry takes time; let us savor the gift John Donne gave to the world:
For Whom the Bell Tolls
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
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