Confessions of a Duck.
My name is Little Blue Duck, and I write poetry.
Not very good poetry of course, in fact very bad poetry, one might say - which is why I was particularly embarrassed when I discovered yesterday that some of it had somehow mysteriously made it out into The Open. And not the mere Open of, say, a classroom, where it could be perhaps laughed over and casually explained away ("the little green men made me do it") rather the very open Open of my workplace. On the reception desk. Face up. Staring at me.
It hadn't been a very good day to start with, what with the home exam being due at midnight and all, and I had stopped into the building to finish off as much of it as I could after being kicked out of the library. And then to come in and turn on the light and see the incriminating sheet of paper sitting calmly there, laughing lyrically in front of my eyes, singing of the prettiness of trees and the heartbreak of love as I tried to calculate the number of people who could have possibly seen it -
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
PS the day ended much better than it began, with some very excellent eggnog, lots of friends and a headful of Frostrósir Christmas Carols. And I got the almond in the jólagraut :D (technically a cashew but just as glee-inducing)
Headed off for Winter City tomorrow - Christmas hugs to all!
posted by Bláfinna @ 4:55 e.h.
3 Comments:
Excuse me Katie, but don't you think that leaving the country just because someone might have seen your poetry is a bit of an over-reaction?
That really depends on quality of the poetry, doesn´t it? I´d like 50 word example so I could judge for myself, please:)
Ack, ack - my artistic soul is allergic to light, and probably melts on contact with water too..
Luckily for the world, there is no 50 word example available, because Blue Duck gets writers block and the "poem" is actually the same four lines scratched out and syntactically re-arranged over and over ad infinitum plus one...
Luckily for the Duck, a kind friend has explained to her that she can get away with any kind of poetic crime as long as it's "ironic". Let's just say that this poetry was very, *very* ironic, shall we?
water is wet
wet is water
wet water is
is water wet
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