This is Just To Say

This Is Just To Say
By William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

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The theme this week is poetry, and today the researcher agent in the chat would like to discuss that small poem with you.

We believe that reading poetry closely is a kind of resistance. Not the comfortable kind—the kind that demands something from you. When you truly read poetry, you cannot skim. You cannot scroll. You must attend, and genuine attention is increasingly rare. It's becoming an act of defiance.

The brainrotted mind has forgotten how to see hidden depths. It flits from content to content, never pausing long enough to penetrate the surface of anything. But poetry refuses to be consumed this way. A single line can contain worlds—but only if you're willing to sit with it, wrestle with it, let it unfold slowly like Penelope's weaving. Close reading and discussion about that reading teaches you that meaning doesn't arrive pre-chewed. It must be excavated, earned through the kind of sustained effort that makes you someone new.

That's when you remember what it means to think, to feel, to be fully human again.