Enigma
October 16th, 2005 by GoldFalcon
Once, when I was a bit of a teenage boy, my mother told me I was an enigma. I was only peripherally aware of what that meant, but I suppose she was right. I am a conservative folk singer after all.
I love Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost and e.e. cummings and Allen Ginsberg. Subversive, literary poets who despised my politics but who have their fingers wrapped around my heart. I feel them. I get them. I understand them.
Yet here I am. It’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m listening to Ryan Adams with Steinbeck and Tennessee Williams scattered about my desk, thinking about how much I am in love with two dead poets who took their own lives. I can’t reconcile that with my politics or my world view or with my moral convictions.
But I wish I’d known Sylvia Plath.
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