Poetry Wednesday: Other People’s Opinions

National Poetry Month is coming to a close.

And as a gift to you, I’m stepping back and offering other people’s opinions on poetry.

You’re welcome.

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 Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

—Khalil Gibran

The Persian language has only one pronoun for all genders. This means that genders in Persian love poetry—and in verses meant to celebrate the adoration of the divine— are essentially fluid.  How cool is that ?

 

Simple Haiku Mug

 

I’ve had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.

—Kenneth Rexroth

Folk Music and Bees(Me, too)

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

—T. S. Eliot

Poet Mug

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.

—Carl Sandburg

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Slam the Poet on Writing Poetry

His Prayer to Gaia blew me away.  Go watch it now.

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There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.

—Robert Graves

Cow Mug

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

—Jean Cocteau

(For more appropriate Emily, sort of, try these)

The poetry you read has been written for you, each of you – black, white, Hispanic, man, woman, gay, straight.

—Maya Angelou

 

Limericks Mug

 

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

—Robert Frost

 

 

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.

—Oscar Wilde

chickenpoetblog(For more of Doug Savage’s insanely funny poetry cartoons, try his website)

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Okay, y’all . . . 

I’ve been doing Poetry Wednesdays here since April of 2011, which is roughly 167 posts.  And though it may seem like I winged most of ’em,  it  does take time to research and write these particular posts—and it seems like reader interest has been flagging over the past few months.

So, while my enjoyment of poetry of all kinds—not to mention my prurient curiosity about the people who write the stuff—hasn’t diminished at all, I’m thinking it might be best to drop the regular poetry posts and just save ’em for April or when I feel the random need to share.

If I’m wrong about the general disinterest, and you’d like me to keep going, please give me your opinion by liking or commenting on this post, or by dropping me an e-mail.

Otherwise, it’s been a terrific run and I’ve met a lot of wonderful poets and poetry lovers along the way.

Thank you all—even you Thomas Hardy fans—for letting me babble on for so long about something I truly love.

And also for all the reprehensible limericks.  You know who you are.

Drama Mama

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Wondermark is created by David Malki!, Sheldon is the brainchild of Dave Kellett, xkcd is written by Randall Munroe, and Savage Chicken is drawn by Doug Savage.  Ownership of these images remains with the creators, and in some cases permission to repost is restricted—so please check before sharing!

The One Sure Sign of Spring

The one sure sign of Spring

It’s not the mud. It’s not the rain. It’s not the colored eggs or the gefilte fish.

It’s this:*

Pollen

“See those trees?” I said, driving down our street, which is lined with trees that have recently, and literally, burst into bloom. “Those trees are trying to kill me.”

“Maybe they know that every plant you touch dies,” Jane said. “Maybe they’re just trying to save the other plants.”

“A preemptive strike? Makes sense to me.”

“What’s a pre . . . pre-empty strike?” Sunny asked.

“Preemptive. Hitting first, before someone can hit you.”

“Like Janie does me.”

“I  do not!”

“Owwww! Mommy, she just—“

“No being pre-emptive in the car!”

“What else can you kill by touching it, Mommy?”

“Just plants. I’m very good at fish and small mammals.”

“Sunny’s a small mammal.”

“Hey!”

“And I’ve kept her alive for seven years.”

“Why?”

“Hey!!”

You, on the other hand, might not make it to twelve . . .”

“Oops. Sorry, Sunny.”

“That’s okay. Just don’t pre-empty me anymore.”

“Pre-EMPTY? That’s not even a word—“

“Jane.”

“—I mean, what’s that even mean?”

“This.”

“OWW! MOM!”

“Nope. Try some pre-empty listening, next time.”

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*To get the full effect, imagine a muffled WHUMP, as if thousands of sinus cavities suddenly imploded and then collapsed in silent, throbbing pain.

Monday made me do it.

Mondays

Wore my uncomfortable shoes this morning, because it was raining and I don’t care if they get soaked, plus I wasn’t planning on doing much walking today.

Dropped off the kids and arrived at work, crossed the street from the parking lot toting my purse, my lunch, and a six pack of 24-oz water bottles through the light rain. Bumped my purse into the staff door’s sensor pad so my badge would register.

Nothing happened. I bumped again. Still nothing.

Dug through my purse, wondering if the chip was finally going in my badge and if I had to get a new one, maybe I should get a new photo, too—one that wasn’t taken the day I came back from my last maternity leave and might not look quite so much like me—and realized that the sensor couldn’t register a badge that wasn’t there.

Trudged back to the car to look for it, figuring that if it wasn’t there, I’d wait for a coworker to arrive and follow them in.

Did I mention it was raining? And that I was schlepping my lunch bag, purse, and nine pounds of water instead of an umbrella? And that my shoes hate me even more after stepping in that puddle, which was an accident?

Found my badge and lanyard, which had wrapped around the parking brake. Freed it, slung it around my neck, and trudged back.

Rain. Heavy. Hurting. Ow.

Bypassed the stairs and headed for the elevator, which took its own, sweet time, and then took me UP, when all the buttons I’d pushed had told it I wanted DOWN. Pushed them again and was punished by stopping on every, single floor on the way to the one I wanted.

Slogged to my desk, wondering why I’d bothered to brush my hair at all, shed my coat and pulled my sweater straight, only to find that my badge had embedded its metal clip in the weave and I’d just yanked a bunch of threads into long, festive loops, directly over my right nipple.*

Did I mention that this is a brand new sweater and the first time I’d worn it?

Took off the sweater, which I don’t really need in our department, since we share space with the boiler room . . . And learned that due to everyone in reference calling in sick today, I’ll be spending the day at the desk not ten feet from the front entrance.

Did I mention that it’s raining even harder now? And the wind likes to come in and browse the new DVDs whenever a patron opens the door? Which is probably why reference keeps calling in sick?

Logged into my workstation to check e-mail for the ten minutes left before I had to clock in, and remembered that I hadn’t written a blog post yet.

Here.

Monday made me do it.

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*It was suggested by a co-worker, who shall remain nameless, but not forgotten, that I should pull matching loops over the left one for “symmetry” and also to boost the library’s popularity.   As librarians can’t accept tips—and I wouldn’t find the place some of our patrons might want to put tips at all acceptable— I didn’t really see the point.

Weekend Writing Warriors: The Anti-Cupids (Art vs. Science)

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!

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It’s been a while since I shared eight-sentences worth of how Viv is coping with her sister’s idea of the perfect wedding.

Kirsten is a greeting card artist, whose Whimsical Fantasy wedding bouquet line is up for a big award.  Guess what kind of bouquet she wants for her wedding?

Let’s listen in while Florist Number Four talks to Viv about this:

???????????

“Three sample bridal bouquets,” the florist said.

“I know, but—“

“Two special orders.”

“I know, but—“

“Even if the flowers she wants existed, they wouldn’t bloom in September.”

Please,” Viv said, rubbing her eyes,  “it’s four months until the wedding.”

“I’m really sorry, but it’s going to take longer than that to breed a seven-petaled, round-leafed, yellow balloon flower, if that’s what those are. Your sister may be a good artist, but she’s no botanist.”

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I’m not either, so if a seven-petaled, round-leafed, yellow balloon flower is a completely reasonable September request, please let me know so I can gum up the works with something else!

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Image of a five-petaled, pointy-leafed, purple balloon taken by Cory, and found via Wikimedia Commons

Random Thursday: Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Rat on a Skateboard

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

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Or a Giant Squid

Sheldon Mushroom Cloud

Please note: the above strategy doesn’t work on Real People™,
who tend to accuse Atomic Physicist Mimes of cheating.

Phooey.

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Catitecture!

Ruan Hao of LYCS Architecture made a table that keeps your cat entertained,
so you can USE the top of the table for HUMAN PURPOSES* without furry interference.

Genius!

Catitecture

Also probably works with Chihuahuas and  ferrets, and possibly small amphibians, too,
though you’ll want to watch that finish.

(Via my husband, who apparently does read this blog . . . who knew?)

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Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock

I know it’s old.  Hush.

This works great . . . unless you’re the type of person who can understand the rules on the first try.

(via Siobhan—I remember this!)

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Quick!  Call Mr. Nimoy!

Paper to the Rescue

Or Mr. Quinto, fine—is this really the time for that argument?

(via Watson, who is still with us in spirit)

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It’s Simple . . . Not

Apparently, in Real Life™, Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock is harder to explain that in the above clip.

A few of Jim Parsons’ many failed attempts show up on the show’s blooper reel for the second season.

He has a theory about this:

Maybe he should have tried an atomic mushroom cloud?

(via Robin, who loves blooper reels as much as I do)

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Random Rat on a Skateboard

Rat on a Skateboard

For Mike Allegra.  

He knows why.

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Rock, Paper, Deus ex Machina

At this point, you might as well go back to tossing coins . . .

Rock Paper What Now

I’m so tempted to send this to the writers of the Big Bang Theory.

The blooper reel would be epic.

(Don’t know where this one came from—if you sent it to me, let me know)

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Paper beats Paper

As in, $50,000 oblong, green pieces of it.

Behold the 2006 Rock Paper Scissors World Championship.

For real:

The announcers are determined to earn their paychecks, too, bless ’em.

(From Chris, who has been hanging around Kev too long)

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*Disclaimer:  please note that this blog cannot be held responsible for any Human Purposes that might overwhelm the structural integrity, tensile strength, or general hygienic properties of the table—or the stress threshold of the average cat.   Purpose responsibly, y’all.

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Sheldon® is the brainchild of the brilliant and (so far) non-litigious Dave Kellet, who is one of the coolest people ever to send his brainchild into the Interwebz.  Go look.