Monday, November 29

poetry and sweat

Am tired, happy, and dusty-sweaty (& prolly smelly too). For some reason I don't really like spending relaxing-time or leisure trips with people as much as I enjoy getting something done, like stacking wood or writing a masterpiece or taking care of a kid or cooking (never washing dishes). I am not very good as a conversationalist, just never got the hang of it for some reason though I am trying to practice this dash'dly awkward art.

Floor is clean, dishes washed, classes nearly up-to-date, hands not pruny any more but self is satisfied. Can breathe more easily and intent on having my cup of tea after dinner tonight with a nice poem or two.

I'm learning to like poetry, but I don't think I shall learn to like red wine. It will take me a while to learn to like that stuff, and I can't read it. You can get drunk on poetry, though. Trust me, I have. Get all tipsy dizzy feeling and can't seem to talk right but mind is happily not-quite-present. Feet stumble slightly because perspective on world is not quite as it was an hour ago. That isn't all poetry, though. For instance, it would be hard to do that with Shel Silverstein:) Yeats, Lewis, Tolkien, Beowulf, Gawain are some. Shelley and Byron are worse at it. Skip the drunk feeling, go straight on to the hangover part.

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