More than half of what people call courage is a combination of an overlarge capacity for avoidance and a tendency to laugh at inappropriate moments. The rest of it is the ability to look the things you cannot avoid in the face, and cry for what you cannot laugh at.


Inspired by a limerick-athon*

Has anyone noticed how the weather
Is running about hither and thither
The afternoons bake and while the nights don’t chill
They do tell us summer isn’t here still
And it’s bringing me to the end of my tether!


Long long days of evaluation
Are followed by yet more examination
Setting papers and correcting them
Coming across an occassional gem
The lows and highs of teaching taxation


Working weekends and hatin’ it
Bunking classes and lovin’ it
Takes me back a few years in time
Inspires me to write a rhyme
And makes me wonder where I’m takin’ it!

*It was on a mailing which I don’t belong to and which BikerBoy threatened me with bodily harm if I invaded, so…

Recruitment time

Bad poetry arrives
Out of a desperation so intense
That words do not suffice
Unless randomly capitalised

Out of fighting with committees again
And half-the-class-walking-outs
Sorrow, frustration and anger
That could explode heads off people’s shoulders

Out of adrenaline
Pumped by hands-in-the-air-I-have-a-question
Excitement, exhilaration and the enjoyment
Of smiles, nods and fast-scribbling pens

Bad poetry arrives
Out of conflicting emotions
And reactions to same-old-same-old
That defy the rules of grammar

A poem by someone else

Lovely as lovely as can be. Via India Uncut.

Don’t talk to me of love.  I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.

Yes, I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame
If we skip the champs Elysees
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this or that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.

Don’t talk to me of love.  Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with…..all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.

  — James Fenton

Out of the closet

I got this from Dimmy, who I’ve decided is a closet feminist: 

A poem for us….
I shave my legs,
I sit down to pee.
And I can justify
any shopping spree.
Don’t go to a barber,
but a beauty salon.
I can get a massage
without a hard-on.
I can balance the checkbook,
I can pump my own gas.
Can talk to my friends,
about the size of my ass.
My beauty’s a masterpiece,
and yes, it takes long.
At least I can admit,
to others when I’m wrong.
I don’t drive in circles,
at any cost.
And I don’t have a problem,
admitting I’m lost.
I never forget,
an important date.
You just got to deal with it,
I’m usually late.
I don’t watch movies,
with lots of gore.
Don’t need instant replay,
to remember the score.
I won’t lose my hair,
I don’t get jock itch.
And just cause I’m assertive,
Don’t call me a bitch.
Don’t say to your friends,
Oh yeah, I can get her.
In your dreams, my dear,
I can do better!
Flowers are okay,
But jewelry’s best.
Look at me you idiot…
Not at my chest????
I don’t have a problem,
With Expressing my feelings.
I know when you’re lying,
You look at the ceiling.
DON’T call me a GIRL ,
a BABE or a CHICK .
I am a WOMAN.