I don't feel as connected with poets as I do with some prose writers, so this prompt was proving to be quite difficult for me; therefore, I decided to just address it to Hemingway.
Dear Ernest,
I worry that I read too much into you. Your words just aren't enough. But maybe they are and I'm not losing it.
You are the worst kind of lover. You are the other who reveals nothing with your stifled words, the blankness of them a vacuum that sucks me into their void and I think and I think and I build my own story out of yours. Perhaps you mean nothing at all and I am driving myself mad for an iceberg that really is all above water.
But then, what does it matter? The notions that I connect to your nices mean something if they mean it to me, perhaps?
Out with it. If I can't write my own words then I must request that yours say more.
Yours (because what's yours is mine),
Marisa
Between Matthews and Levis, I suppose I would say that I appreciate the works of Matthews more. Although the narrative power of Levis is compelling for me, especially as a prose writer, I find that the subject matter and the imagery of Matthews' poetry resonates more with me. The beautiful and complex way that he writes about setting appeals to the poetic side of me, as I feel like my own writing is at its most vivid when describing sensual aspects of setting.
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