To love despite the flaws ...

I wish I had come to poetry much earlier in life.

Because, I suspect that when younger, I would have easily memorized verses.  But, the prosaic environment at school and the boring me made for an unfavorable combination, and by the time I got to poems, I had become an old man who can not memorize lines that easily anymore.

If only I had committed to memory the well known Shakespeare sonnets, then my classroom experience would be that much more exciting and enriching, at least for me!

In response to my remark that during Thanksgiving students can reflect on the course materials and be that much more thankful for their lives in the US of A, a student questioned whether the US is all that to be thankful for.

"I don't mean to imply that everything about the US is perfect" I told the class.  The US has its flaws, yes.  But, we love it and feel thankful despite all those flaws.  "Like in Shakespeare's sonnet number 130 or 132 ... "

I could not even recall the sonnet number!

Of course, I can be happy that I am at least familiar with the sonnet and am able to relate that to the discussions.  But, wouldn't it be wonderful if I had more than a passing familiarity?

" ... where he talks about his mistress and how her skin is not smooth and her odor ..."

My alter ego would have recited that entire sonnet from memory!  Clearly, a polymath I am not!

I often wonder whether I am trying to be something I am not and in a system that truly doesn't care.  My idea of a professor is one who is well-versed in a wide range of topics, is able to show students how knowledge is integrated and not fragmented.  But, the system wants specialists who know a thing or two and know them really, really well.  Am I struggling against these specialist hedgehogs while being an incompetent fox?

Love me despite my flaws, dear reader ;)

SONNET 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.