Marcus hasn't returned to his seat, as if still quite ready to end the lesson for the day. Her question almost earns a smile, but he spares her, reaching out to pull the book nearer, and scan the page.
"Old fashioned," he says. "Which doesn't help its coherency. Sonnets make meanings in their rhythms as well as their words. Here--"
He points a line out by placing a finger next to it. "'I found, or thought I found, you did exceed the barren tender of a poet's debt'," he recites, in the tone of someone at least someone practiced in recitation of verse. "This is a poem about poetry's limit. But it contradicts itself in its existence."
"No," Marcus says. "I don't think so. Rather, the frustration of man's limited capacity to describe the indescribably beautiful. Even a poet, or especially."
"Seems like a lot more effort than just talking plain. Do people use these as secret messages, d'ya think? If there's so many layers to it, I'd think you could say a lot with folk being none the wiser."
She's had the same thought about floriography; that sending messages without words might be useful for wartime intelligence. Not that there's a flower to signify Corypheus sux.
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"Old fashioned," he says. "Which doesn't help its coherency. Sonnets make meanings in their rhythms as well as their words. Here--"
He points a line out by placing a finger next to it. "'I found, or thought I found, you did exceed the barren tender of a poet's debt'," he recites, in the tone of someone at least someone practiced in recitation of verse. "This is a poem about poetry's limit. But it contradicts itself in its existence."
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Weird. Relatable, but weird.
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She's had the same thought about floriography; that sending messages without words might be useful for wartime intelligence. Not that there's a flower to signify Corypheus sux.