Poem of the day:

But first...

This photo was taken a while ago, but currently the Johnny Jump-ups are about the only things still flowering out there. Holy cow, are those things hardy.

Anyway.

I've lost a topic. I'd had a thought about what I was going to blather on about today and it was almost even a good one (at least, I found it interesting), but between laundry loads and other morning nonsense I've completely forgotten what it was. That more than ticks me off, to be honest. I have enough days here without actual topics that to have a topic and then lose it just seems completely and stupidly unfair. And to top it off, I have very little doubt that when I do remember it again I'll realise that it wasn't all that great an idea to begin with, and I'll have wasted my time being ticked off that I forgot it in the first place.

Um, yeah. Sometimes my brain is a slightly confusing place to be.

Ah well. In lieu of a real post, then, I thought I'd introduce what may or may not be a regular feature of the blog on blatherless days from now on. You see, I'm a bit of a poetry buff and have been for some time. I even have periods of writing (fairly bad) poetry to amuse myself, although I'm in an off-cycle for that at the moment. What I thought I'd do, though, is start looking up a few of my favourites on the the Representative Poetry Online database and posting the links here. I'm not going to do any analysis or anything like that (poetry analysis can drive all the enjoyment of a poem off into the sunset for me, really. I know that there's value to it, but I like making up my own mind about what I'm reading rather than being told what I should be getting out of it. I'm funny that way.), but I will put a note or two about why the poem stays in my head.

And for those of my two fans who have no use for poetry... well... read the damned poems anyway. It'll only take a moment, and you'll be keeping me from getting crankier.



So. Today's feature is by A.E. Housman. It's A Shropshire Lad LXII, but it's better known by its first line: Terence, This is Stupid Stuff. And why am I picking that particular poem?









Part of me just wants to say because I like it and be done with this post. It's been interrupted too many times, and I'm starting to want lunch over blather. At any rate, let me say that I like the superficial simplicity of Housman's lines, I like the feeling of the breaking of the fourth wall that this poem gives in the context of the whole collection, and I like that a classical scholar like Housman was able to write in a way that didn't require a dictionary and encyclopedia to get at least the gist of what he was saying. His lines are sing-song and his rhymes don't generally stretch too hard, and the whole collection feels very natural. I know it's probably a little odd to feel comfortable in a group of poems that deal with death and disconsolation, but I'm comfortable in Housman's work.

And is that the point of poetry? No, of course not. Believe me, there are plenty of uncomfortable poems out there, and if I decide to do this again you can bet that you'll see at least a few of them here.

For now, though, I need to find some food.




We all have our priorities.