seaeffess

Hey guys! Has anyone heard anything about NYU's waiting list? I've had two emails ages ago (specifying I'm not to call or ask them any whens or ifs) and nothing since. I'd be really grateful to hear from anyone who's been accepted outright or who has been contacted from the wait list. I am also curious to know if anyone has been waitlisted by a certain school and asked in that waitlist email not to post online? I don't want to divulge the name of the school but I am curious about whether this is a common practice. Finally, is anyone accepted to Columbia for poetry and probably going? I would love to discuss! Finally, because we can poem here, Allen Ginsberg's A Supermarket in California (please excuse the bastardized spacing : What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?