In editing graduate students long poems, I find myself more likened unto the process of writing. The soul is wet, again. I am renewed and yet deadened by the experience of term papers and isolation. But I do.see.the.light. I will graduate June 7th with an Honours degree in Classics with a Major in Creative Writing. I am almost finished.
And then what.
Reading Plato's Phaedrus--a section which deals with the writing down of knowledge and how it fails in comparison with the discerning of knowledge simply from one's soul, "since you are the father of writing, your affection for it has made you describe its effects as the opposite of what they really are."
There is no "potion" to writing.
One cannot leave “written instructions for an art” because writing cannot “yield results that are clear or certain.”
And so then, it begs the question. Can poetry really be taught?
I will say that reading poetry and discussing criticism has brought me closer to what I invest in concerning my own writing, however, the simple wisdom of the soul is best left unwritten, perhaps, and the longing to be spreading lavender seed in a field my own soul is owner of rings ever more true with further investigation into philosophy, poetry and art.
I have loved my university experience. It has been the hardest thing I've ever had to complete, comprehend, and accomplish well. I have written much. But what is my soul saying?