The editorial staff here at Standing Eight debated what should be our virginal post on this, destined to become the most widely read blog ever on Politics Sports Art Music Philosophy Media and Literature Not Necessarily in That Order. It didn't seem right to just jump on the rather unappealing dog pile Harriet Miers is at the bottom of; and at this point no one who cares is going to be impressed that we were bitching about Judy Miller way before she went to jail; and Baseball just ended for the season, given that the board are to a man and woman lifelong Redbird fans; and David Foster Wallace's next book comes out later in the year and it's only essays anyway. (Seriously, the board wants to know, when do we get a new novel?) Rest assured, those and similar topics will fill our page regularly.
So in the spirit of getting things started, our first post is the first poem we ever wrote (as a board) that we liked enough (as a board) to show to people who weren't close friends (to the board). Forthwith and for your consideration:
If TS Eliot Had Been a Taoist, He Would Never Have Written a Poem
After, after now, before the end,
I sense, and so should you, a place where things will intersect,
And you will thread the needle's eye's hole of your intellect,
To weave a custom garment which by custom I select;
But you will do your due part if you duly do attend.
Beginningly, I'm sorry, but I feel I must digress
While we are still pre- any permanent undo-able progress
And take a moment to discuss my outer dressing:
"A needle's eye my intellect?"
If you, good sir or madam should object,
You'll find your cup of tea perhaps too full,
But I'm afraid my argument too pressing.
But, if you're open to receive,
If you're willing to believe,
You know mind is just a state of mind.
You know how to go with it when taken from behind
By ideas that seem at first to be a little bit unkind,
But after due review are not as cruel as we conceive.
The student who can learn is the teacher who can teach,
And others can say anything or nothing, each to each,
But none can put the question to themselves, auto-impeach.
And maybe that's the reason for the fall.
I must not be a poem because I made my point before I could say anything at all.