Tag Archives: Gerard Manley Hopkins

POETS Day! Liking Robert Browning

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Not a monk.

[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

I’m feeling older this week. My son is now a rising high school senior, though I don’t suppose the “rising” does anything as a modifier. I doubt many recent graduates are still calling themselves seniors so there’s no danger confusing rising college freshmen, graduates entering the job market, or enlisted men and women with disgorged prep school juniors.

He’s considering his future and colleges. Labs loom there. He fancies a career in research; biochemistry. That’s the current plan. He’s not old like I am and gets to change his mind. Is it too early to point out that some chemical reactions require babysitting? I don’t want to helicopter the kid, but he needs to at least consider the advantages of a career where a premature Friday afternoon exit has less chance of resulting in an explosion. But what do I know, right? I’m just the dad. “Ooh la-la.”

That’s kids, though. One track minds, blinders on, whatever the metaphor. You know what I’m talking about. This POETS Day, when you do the right thing – Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday – keep in mind that there are impressionable young kids on summer break, milling about town. They’re usually in school that time of day and might not know the importance of a wasted afternoon. Be seen. Mentor a kid by hitting a bar in view of a ballroom dance classroom window. If there’s a kid working a summer job at the market, be loud about why you need sunscreen when you’re supposed to be at work. Show him that shirking doesn’t hide in the shadows. Be a role model.

But first, a little verse to kick start your weekend.

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POETS Day! Fugglestone St. Peter’s own, George Herbert

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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

POETS Day snuck up on me this week. I try to extend some lifeline, no matter how flimsy it may be, to give plausible rational for skipping out of work early, but I’ve done a lot of these now. Finding a new excuse every week isn’t as easy as it may seem. Don’t let that deter you.

You don’t need me to supply you with a reason. It’s right there: TS. Piss Off Early comes with its own why. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Admire the fulgence of the anagram’s fullness and start the weekend at a time of your choosing.

Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Catch a ball game at a bar. Take a walk in a park. On average, we only see 4,113.2 Fridays in a lifetime and at minimum 2% of those are 13ths. Don’t waste one clock-watching.

If you do manage to get out, take a moment to read a poem or three. Maybe these.

***

My wife and I honeymooned in Vancouver. It was 2002, three years after the British ceded Hong Kong to Communist China. Refugees scattered all over the Pacific Rim. These weren’t the poor. I read that British Columbia absorbed thirty thousand souls. We were told to expect amazing high-end Chinese cuisine and we found amazing high-end Chinese cuisine.

We went to an elegant place near the harbor for dim sum. It was in a hotel lobby; a huge room below a series of mezzanines with an open wall of glass extending up several floors. Neither of us had ever eaten dim sum before but we were told that instead of a menu there would be a cart full of food that would visit tableside and you chose what you wanted from there.

That’s what happened. A cart came by and there were dumplings and bao, which may or may not be a dumpling as well but seems distinct to me. I think there was soup and definitely spicy vegetables. Little strips of sticky meat. Everything was fantastic. What we didn’t know was there would be a series of carts with different offerings making the rounds.

We loaded up on the first thing that came by and though we loved what we got, we saw what we didn’t. The duck on the third cart looked impossibly crisp. There was a lesson to be learned; a variant on “Don’t make fast friends.” Get the lay of the land before you commit.

I didn’t learn that lesson.

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POETS Day! Thanks for God, Girls, and Growing Old

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[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]

There’s no need for a traditional POETS Day this week. “Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday” doesn’t really resonate when so many have a long Thanksgiving weekend anyway. Maybe “Pig Out, Enjoy Tryptophan Slumber?”

I’m phoning this one in myself. I’ve got potatoes dauphinoise (Not potatoes Lyonnaise!) to make and since no one else eats or cares about string bean casserole but me, I have to make that too. “Have to,” is misleading. It is necessary that I cook because I told people that I’d be contributing the potatoes, but “have to” makes it sound like a chore. It isn’t. I like spending time in the kitchen.

It’s like this column. I don’t have to write it, but I like doing so. Two years ago, I started this weekly for OT with a smirk, a silly acronym I picked up from a Scottish detective novel, and a nagging suspicion that poetry was not as much an ivory tower property as it’s considered.

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