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I have made lemon curd and applied to three theatre jobs.

I smell like citrus and desperation!

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[info]cluegirl asked me for a poem the other day for Poetry Month, and I've been turning it over in my head ever since -- I told her I couldn't write her one, but Ellis Graveworthy would. I suppose I must have caught him in one of his darker moments, because this was slipped under my door this morning.

Clue, this isn't the poem I wanted, not for you especially, but it's what I got, I'm afraid.

FOR THE ARTIST IN WARTIME
by Ellis Graveworthy

When he is hungry, fill his mouth with words;
Teach her to recite while fever burns.
Build houses with three walls for little pay
At night the flat's unheated; sleep in turns.
"The money has all gone; there's no return
On beauty, and we can't invest in joy.
The dividends of war outnumber peace;
If you want pay, go be a soldier boy.
You want to live for art, then art you'll eat;
Art will be your doctor, keep your books.
Art will have to keep you warm at night."
The moneymen won't give you second looks.
But when the soldiers come all limping home
Not cash nor goods will soothe their deadened eyes;
And riots in the streets are the result
Of those who live too narrow, too-small lives.
The parents often starve to feed the young,
But there will be a recompense at last
And when they know you can't get love with guns
The artists will be kings of all the lands.
So bide a while and fill your mouths with words;
Recite, recite, recite, while fever burns.

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