Random acts of poetry

Around areas where there is construction on the University Grounds they put up these probably 10 foot tall wooden privacy walls. The walls are many panels, painted black or red � functional and not beautiful but passable. Student groups, who often advertise their causes or events by writing in the chalk on the maze work of sidewalks traversing grounds have recently discovered that these panels too are wonderful chalk receptacles.

A group, perhaps calling themselves the renegade poets, covered an entire wall of these panels, surrounding a building in the highest traffic area on grounds, with poetry. T.S. Elliot and Alan Ginsburg were, I believe the best represented � but there is everything from Seuss to Shakespeare.

It was two in the morning when Emmett and I happened upon the poetry while walking home from the library. I�d seen it in passing on my way to class, but hadn�t had time to read it before. We read it. Every single one of the probably more than fifty panels. Aloud. Loudly.

Oh, but world, that is poetry. Poetry is there and it is written before you and you are shouting it to the freezing cold at two in the morning. I am in love with these poets and this life. I am in love, in love, in love with the freezing cold and the shouting of poems and being loud in the library and wanting to spin around and around with my arms outstretched. I want life to take me up in her arms and kiss me firmly but softly on the lips. I want to close my eyes and feel life�s hands on my face and maybe gently rest one of my hands on top of hers. I want to break the kiss and grab life�s hands and go skipping down the Lawn in the cold, crisp night. I want us to be skipping so fast and laughing so hard that we can barely catch our breath and I want the sharp gasps to hurt because it�s so warm inside our bodies that the air almost explodes from the expansion of inhalation.

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