Day Twenty: Poetry Day (Yellenahs)

I used to write poems all the time. I used to have reasons to write poems. Now that I'm not nearly as angsty, I find less to write about. They were pretty okay, for someone who didn't know the first thing about poetry or meter or had really ever read that many poems in her life.

I'm not an English major. I have no ambition to write you a 20-line poem in iambic pentameter, partially because I'm probably not good at writing in iambic pentameter. The other part is that I'm busy drinking a glass of wine, which should pump my creative juices but I don't think it is. Can I just draw you a picture instead?

Mannnnnnnn.

"Mercy," cried the Popinjay to the Pope,
"I'm not so fond of these walls all in taupe!"
Replied he, "I can't even see color,
Twas the godforsaken decorator!"

Is that iambic pentameter? Is that a poem? Why isn't the phrase iambic pentameter IN iambic pentameter? The words are so long, it should be.

Over and out.

Day Twenty: Poetry Day (Anailuj)

My facebook account is down, so I guess I have to spend my time doing something stimulating and creative instead of harvesting my squash on FarmVille. The book provides the first line of a poem in iambic pentameter* and wants me to write one line to go with it, then send that line to the book's website so they can be put together to create the world's longest poem. But I'm an English major, and an ambitious one, and I have decided to compose an entire poem for you.**

Better get into brooding artsy poet mode.

World-weary countenance- check.

Tortured soul- check.

Mug of tea- check

Book by world-weary, tortured, tea-drinking author (Kerouac's Visions of Gerard)- check.

Music by world-weary, totured, tea-drinking musician (City and Colour, Confessions)- check.

Note: I don't know for sure that Dallas Green of City and Colour/Alexisonfire drinks tea, but I feel like he probably enjoys a nice toasty mug of it now and again. I'm of the opinion that tea is the fuel that powers the left side of our brains. That's the artsy half.

See how brooding and artistic he is? I'm pretty sure there's a mug of tea in this picture but you can't see it because it got cut out. But for now I shall stop wishing that Dallas, his perfect voice, and his indie geekdom were mine to have and to hold, and write a poem for you. The book gave me the first line. It's what i would call "a doozy." Here goes.

"Mercy," cried the Popinjay to the Pope,

"For I have not yet given up all hope

That your style, though absurd it may look,

Can be remedied if I use this book."

Out from his suit the Popinjay produced

A sturdy wooden box all made of spruce.

And from this box the Popinjay pulled out

A book that in the fashion world held clout.

"What Not to Wear" the cover said in gold.

The Pope agreed, though not completely sold.

For the idea that the Pope requir'd

This foppish man to pick out his attire

Would shock God-fearing Catholics out of mind

For they questioned men of flamboyant kind.

But his hat! His robes! They just would not do!

They laughed at him on ET, in US too!

And so the Popinjay used his fab plan

To refresh the wardrobe of God's main man.

But in the end that task was all in vain:

His new look rivaled Prince in Purple Rain.

FIN.

*In case you spaced out, slept in, or skipped English 101, iambic pentamer is a poetic meter (that means rhythm) consisiting of ten syllables, the first stressed, the second unstressed, the third stressed, etc. It sounds like this: "da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH."

**But it will never be as wonderful as the impromptu poem I wrote and texted to John early one morning.

Day Nine: Do Something Before Breakfast (Anailuj)

Yellenahs and I had originally planned for both of us to call John on this day at around 6am and express our surprise that he wasn't up yet. But we can't hide our excitement about anything from John for very long, and we told him. So of course he turned his phone off.
Often we are stupid.
Today I had to get up around 5:30 am to babysit my cousins. (Babysitting: the one job the government will never try to tax me for.) So I was up and definitely doing a lot of things before breakfast, but today I decided to do something special. So I walked out of my house and did twenty jumping jacks in my driveway, in the dark.
Then I wrote a poem about it and texted it to John. It went a little something like this:
Dearest John,
In morning dark,
There does not sing
A single lark.
Yet twenty jumping jacks I did;
From not a single car I hid.
Now making chai tea in a cup,
I'm wondering:
Why aren't you up?

He didn't get it until he turned his phone back on, but I like to think that it was an awesome way for him to start his day.

Plus, doing jumping jacks in the cold definitely woke me up. I'll probably do that every time I have to babysit in the morning.

And I would count that as a change in my life.