mirella: (Default)
One night a poem came up to a poet.
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I've used it already, said the poet,
I've exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that's made
Out of the nightingale's song, use that mask.
But it's an old mask, said the poet,
it's all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it's the perfect mask,
Nevertheless, try on the god mask,
That mask illuminates heaven.
It's a tired mask, said the poet,
And the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubadour’s mask,
Or the singer's mask,
Try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit too easily.
Now the poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its foot like a child,
it screamed, Then try on your own face,
Try on the one mask that terrifies you,
The mask only you could possibly use,
The mask only you can wear out.
The poet tore at his face till it bled,
This mask? he asked, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, why not?
But he was tired of masks,
He had lived too long with them.
He snatched at the poem and stuck to his face.
He chewed on it, spat bits out, destroyed it.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
It wriggled into his eyes and mouth,
Into his blood it wriggled.
The next day his friends did not recognise him,
They were afraid of him.
Now it's the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly, and never let go again.

National Poetry Day
mirella: (Default)
A summer of rain, then a gap in the clouds
and The Queen jumped from the sky
to the cheering crowds.
We speak Shakespeare here,
a hundred tongues, one-voiced; the moon bronze or silver,
sun gold, from Cardiff to Edinburgh
by way of London Town,
on the Giant's Causeway;
we say we want to be who we truly are,
now, we roar it. Welcome to us.
We've had our pockets picked,
the soft, white hands of bankers,
bold as brass, filching our gold, our silver;
we want it back.
We are Mo Farah lifting the 10,000 metres gold.
We want new running-tracks in his name.
For Jessica Ennis, the same; for the Brownlee brothers,
Rutherford, Ohuruogu, Whitlock, Tweddle,
for every medal earned,
we want school playing fields returned.
Enough of the soundbite abstract nouns,
austerity, policy, legacy, of tightening metaphorical belts;
we got on our real bikes,
for we are Bradley Wiggins,
side-burned, Mod, god;
we are Sir Chris Hoy,
Laura Trott, Victoria Pendleton, Kenny, Hindes,
Clancy, Burke, Kennaugh and Geraint Thomas,
Olympian names.
We want more cycle lanes.
Or we saddled our steed,
or we paddled our own canoe,
or we rowed in an eight or a four or a two;
our names, Glover and Stanning; Baillie and Stott;
Adlington, Ainslie, Wilson, Murray,
Valegro (Dujardin's horse).
We saw what we did. We are Nicola Adams and Jade Jones,
bring on the fighting kids.
We sense new weather.

I like this - I don't know if the formatting is right, grabbed it from a news page but haven't seen it in print yet. I gather the lists of names are attracting negative comment, but I like poems like American Names and so on, so it's to my taste.
mirella: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] thidwick, on FB, was taunting us with borderline Easy Listening songs the other night, which created several earworms, so today I have been pootling about on YouTube finding similar/worse things. (Reading some of the music pages on TV Tropes didn't help, either.) These are some of the things stuck in my head.

Videos, with no particular connection or order )
mirella: (Default)
I don't think Southern Electric will be trying to sell us gas in the near future. [livejournal.com profile] smallclanger has taken to filling his nappy approximately once a week (ok, sometimes it's a little more often but...). This is good for the first few days, then he starts to be rather farty, and then when the nappy is filled - *phew!*. It takes a lot longer to clean up than you'd imagine, since he often 'gets' his clothes as well. Today I caught him just before the nappy started leaking, and whisked him off onto the changing station, which I covered liberally with paper towels. Just as well because once the nappy was off, more came out (and he weed on his dungarees too, the silly boy). So when the doorbell rang there was no way I could really answer it. The hall light was on and the changing station is essentially in view of the door, albeit through stippled-effect glass and down the hall. I waved, hoping the person at the door would see, and called out that I would be there in a minute. The doorbell went again. Thinking I would go down and answer it shortly, I got the worst of the mess off [livejournal.com profile] smallclanger so that, if necessary, I could wrap him in a muslin (plenty of them, easy to wash) and carry him to the door. Doorbell went again, and I called out again, and waved again. The person knocked on the door (which I hatehatehate, it's glass, it sounds horrid). [livejournal.com profile] smallclanger giggled. Doorbell went again. I lost it slightly, figured that if it was someone important they'd understand and if it wasn't they jolly well deserved it, and carried [livejournal.com profile] smallclanger, unwiped, dirty-side-forward, down the hall and opened the door.
"Southern Electric. Can I ask who you buy your gas from?"
[thinks: oh, how polite. No name, no ID. And no, you bloody well can't ask. I don't actually know, or care.]
Waving disgustingly mucky baby in front of me: "I'm rather busy." Shuts door. Mouths rude words under breath. Baby giggles and attempts to wee on me.

Well it wasn't polite but dang, if I don't feel a lot better for doing it. Now if there was just an aural way of doing it to telemarketers and the like.

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mirella

October 2012

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