Written in Response to the Approaching End of a Season amid an Attempt at #NaPoWriMo

The last few dozen yards beckon,
And though my legs are grown heavy
And my breath is raggedly in and out,
Still, I swallow and start to sprint,
Knowing that once I break the tape,
I can rest a while before the next event

You get that it’s not really about running, right?
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Written for Another Saturday in an Attempt at #NaPoWriMo

Reading for the work I do,
And there is still a lot of it I do
Even now in these later days,
I remember when I read for the joy of it,
Something I seem not to do anymore,
And I wonder where the years have gone,
Even as I have to get back to
Poring over the pages

How to find delight herein again…
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A Pair of Short Stanzas Written for an Ongoing Attempt at #NaPoWriMo

There is so much more to do
And I fear I can’t carry through
All my tasks–but it is true
That I am working on them.

Image unrelated.
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I lift my pen; I wield no sword.
I rise from bed and go to board
And thence to add more to my hoard–
My tasks, I’m working on them.

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Written for an Ongoing Attempt at #NaPoWriMo between Taking My Daughter to School and Going to Work

The flowers emerge from the soil again
Green-built blooms rising from between the stones
The gravel and pebbles and chunks of rock
Leavings of tree-roots walking through
Still waving proudly at the roadsides
And I smile to see them
Even if I dare not stop to smell them
Knowing that the traffic will not slow for me
And that I will not last long as a speedbump

I have said I like the bluebonnets.
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Written for the Ongoing Attempt at #NaPoWriMo before Someone Else Went out into the Wilds

There are times
I think
I ought to be
The kind of guy who
Goes out camping,
But then the rain falls
And such thoughts wash away,
Ripples on my windows

Nice view.
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Something Slightly #NSFW in an Attempt at #NaPoWriMo

Doom keeps getting
Closer and closer,
Nearing arrival,
And I have never been so glad
Someone can’t find the clit

Image unrelated, I’m sure.
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#Poem for a Monday in #NaPoWriMo

Although I would like to rehearse
With every day a little verse,
I’ve work to do, and it gets worse
If I should e’er neglect it.

It sometimes feels like this…
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I still will do my little part
To press ahead with ragged art,
Thus easing upset of my heart,
Which I’ve too oft neglected.

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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series, Entry 444: Fool’s Quest, Chapter 22

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series
here.

Oh, and I am still doing #NaPoWriMo. I did have to make my update to the reading, though.


Following an excerpt from anonymous instructions to an assassin, “Confrontations” begins with Lant reporting to the Farseer elite, as well as Rosemary and Ash. Fitz reflects on Lant’s account to that point, and he speaks in Lant’s favor as Dutiful dismisses him. Discussion follows Lant’s departure, and Fitz finds himself unexpectedly tasked with seeing if any of the guards from the company that had acted ill are worth redeeming.

Is this the beginning of a murder, or of a motley crew?
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Fitz later confers with the Fool about the situation, which conversation is interrupted by a Skilled summons from Nettle. Fitz excuses himself from the Fool to answer it, Motley accompanying him.

Answering the summons, Fitz reports to the Queen’s Garden, where Civil Bresinga delivers tidings of Bee and Shun. Old Blood folk and their animals had noted strange movements of people, corroborated by Skill-deadened agents, leaving the Farseers with the evident intended destination of Bee and Shun’s captors. Dutiful lays out his plans, and he offers Fitz a place of honor but not one of aid, reminding Fitz who is in command of matters.

Fitz fumes silently at how he has been maneuvered, and more at the correctness of those who have done so. Thus fuming, he purposes to call upon Chade, only to find Steady there and Chade asleep. Steady confers with Fitz briefly until a stirring Chade interrupts, bidding him go retrieve their daughters. And Fitz then moves to do just that, giving directives to Foxglove and others. Foxglove gives a frank report of unit readiness, and Fitz moves off with some self-doubt to address the task of the disgraced guards. That, however, he manages neatly, if brusquely.

So much done, Fitz returns to the Fool, preparing to dose himself with elfbark and outfit himself for a covert expedition. The Fool reports his dreams as Fitz makes his preparations and excuses himself; Fitz runs into Lant on his way out, and Lant purposes to accompany him. Fitz is direct with him, urging Lant to remain behind, but it is clear he will not stay in Buckkeep.

Fitz then rejoins Foxglove, reviewing their augmented forces. Afterwards, he makes to tend to his horse, where Perseverance meets him, and they talk together briefly.

The present chapter, just after midway through the book in the printing I am reading, has a lot going on, a lot of smaller moving parts. In terms of structure, it suggests an acceleration towards the climax of Freytag’s pyramid, that the pivotal action for this novel–and perhaps for the trilogy, given that the novel is the second member of it–approaches. And in terms of content, it suggests that Fitz, despite his greater years and experience, remains the headstrong, passionate boy he was at the death of Shrewd decades before, seeking to rush ahead because he knows better than those who bear responsibility and have both more information and clearer heads than he. I am not certain whether to be delighted at the consistency of characterization or annoyed that Fitz seems not to have learned lessons that have been literally (and, yes, I do intend the pun, here) beaten into him across years–but it seems to me as I consider it that the fact to that uncertainty is an artifact of my engagement with the text, and that would seem to argue for the narrative’s effectiveness, at least with this reader.

Admittedly, such an assertion ranges once again into reading with affect; I have lost track of the number of times in this rereading series that I have found myself reading affectively, reading through my emotional reactions to the text rather than calmly applying one particular critical lens or another to it. Were I still in academe, it would be more of a problem than it presently is; as it is now, I am not much writing for classroom audiences (although I do still have the impression that some student or another reads what I write here and uses it for some schoolroom purpose or another–which is not a problem, although it would be nice to hear from those who do so). Were I in more practice than I have allowed myself to be, I might look at the present chapter through some more formal rubric than the “reader-response” that I (over-) generously label myself as using. But, alas, I am not in more practice than I am, even with the source- or reception-focused approaches that tended to undergird my scholarship when I made claims to doing it. Other major approaches do not suggest themselves to me at the moment, either, which may just be an artifact of my hammering this out between other jobs or may well be a symptom of my critical faculties atrophying.

Or it may be that this is another of my scholarly somedays, a project waiting for attention and to which I will return in time. I can hope for as much, for both the inspiration of how to treat it and the time to treat it well enough to suit myself–and maybe others. There is some comfort in that, at least.

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Reflecting on Earlier Writing (Another #Poem for an Attempt at #NaPoWriMo)

Looking back on what I wrote before,
Reading aloud the words to those for whom I wrote them,
In whose honor and praise I lifted my pen
And in whose honor and praise I would do so again,
Seeing one smile not only at her own,
But also at that of the other–
An uplifting joy matched only by
The fall from the other not bothering to listen

Shocking, I know.
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A #Sonnet for the First Saturday of an Attempt at #NaPoWriMo 2025

I sit surrounded by the books I’ve read–
Not all, of course, that have passed through my head,
Years taking many from me. They have led
Me down strange roads and long, my scholar’s self,
Those tomes and pamphlets ranging on each shelf
That all together make the little delph
Through which I, longing, search out wisdom’s ore.
Such as I find, I gather, put in store
For later smelting, shaping, thence to shore
Up bulwarks raised against the creeping doom
That seems yet more each day to o’erhead loom.
If I should die here, I’ve at least my tomb,
Already wrought as I’d have me surround
Between my final breath and final ground.

Deep.
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