(no subject)

The last post of Poetry Month is upon us!

Okay, so I haven't managed a full record of thirty days of poetry, since I skipped a few days and forgot some others. But! I think I have put a lot of versifyin' out there, and everyone seems to have enjoyed kicking around in it, so I'm satisfied.

I picked this poem out to be the last of the month when I was going through my archives before it even began. It says what I feel about writing, and I think it's a lovely, defiant, cheerful note to end on.

Dear Friends
by EA Robinson

Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,
Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
That I am wearing half my life away
For bubble-work that only fools pursue.

And if my bubbles be too small for you,
Blow bigger then your own: the games we play
To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

And whose reads may get him some shrewd skill;
And some unprofitable scorn resign,
To praise the very thing that he deplores;
So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,
The shame I win for singing is all mine,
The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.

(no subject)

We have, in the pantry-corner of our flat:

1 hose-style vacuum cleaner, broken
1 upright vacuum cleaner, borrowed
1 moppy vacuum thing for cleaning wood floors with
2 swiffer sweepers, one wet, one dry
1 duspan and broom

And I just tripped over all of them.

R, who was asleep, flailed off the sofa as if the apocalypse had come, only to find me hopping up and down on my left foot with a can of tomato paste in one hand, swearing and bleeding.

FORTUNATELY WE HAD A MOPPY VACUUM THING TO CLEAN UP THE BLOOD WITH.

Jesus Christ, I thought I was going to grow out of my awkward phase.