It’s a brand-new year with a brand-new slate of sick days tempting you to do evil. Don’t waste those quite yet. A half day’s like a skip day you didn’t sleep through the first half of and if you playthings right, there’s fifty-two of them. That’s a lot. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
Happy New Year.
Seize the afternoon and enjoy the remains of a Friday on your terms. But first, some verse.
***
Everybody knows Robert Frost’s famous poem “The Road Not Taken.” Most of us, myself included, are told that it’s an anthem, a call to individualism, by a teacher. It’s presented to us young. Someone gives us the gist – usually in lauding, reverent tones – and we read it as accepting sponges.
I never questioned the received assessment. For years I unfairly filed the poem, and Frost too, away as starter kit stuff; Johnson’s Baby Poetry, to mangle a line from P.J. O’Rourke. People with a desire to seriously immerse themselves in a subject like poetry—dive in and learn the whats and whyfores—need to shed assumptions. I didn’t do that. I assumed that since I “knew” about Frost and “The Road Not Taken,” it couldn’t be all that great; jingoistic popular stuff. I wanted the esoterica. That was dumb.
In the spirits of POETS Day and Christmas, I’m phoning one in this week to spend more time with my wrapping paper. Below is a reprint of “POETS Day! Clement Clark Moore” from December 23, 2022. I’ve rearranged a couple of sentences that infuriated me on reread and found a spelling error that need not be repeated, but otherwise, it is as was.
Have a wonderful Christmas, or Holiday Season if you pray otherwise. Bless you all.
***
“Not a mouse stirring.” – Hamlet Act I, Scene I
This is another one of those weekends where there’s really not much need for a POETS Day. Heresy! You might say, and I’d be tempted to agree with you, but even those that don’t celebrate Christmas are the beneficiaries of an act of Congress marking the 25th of December as a federal holiday and that designation pretty well spills over to the days before and after in fact if not in practice. Even if you are at work, whoever you are supposed to be calling on or transferring funds to is probably tilting at last minute shopping or stuck in an airport because the U.S. is now apparently Hoth so it’s a wasted week. If you don’t work retail, you’ve likely already been given a pass to leave work early on Friday if you were expected to show up at all. There’s no need to adhere to the dictate Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday, but that doesn’t mean there’s no need for a bit of poetry. On the contrary, this is an excellent time to get all doe-eyed and the kind of overplayed optimistic cheerful that makes grown men cringe and wish they’d never heard the word ebullient and say, “But it’s always time for poetry!” I think that’s true. Hope you do too.
Do what you must. Lie to your boss. Fake a cough at school. Invite Jamaal Bowman to do his thing. Nothing productive gets done on a Friday after lunch anyway.
Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
But first, take time for a little verse.
***
“As for ‘free verse’, I expressed my view twenty-five years ago by saying that no verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. No one has better cause to know than I, that a great deal of bad prose has been written under the name of free verse; though whether its authors wrote bad prose or bad verse, or bad verse in one style or in another, seems to me a matter of indifference. But only a bad poet could welcome free verse as a liberation from form. It was a revolt against dead form, and a preparation for new form or for the renewal of the old; it was an insistence upon the inner unity which is unique to every poem, against the outer unity which is typical. The poem comes before form, in the sense that a form grows out of the attempt of somebody to say something; just as a system of prosody is only a formulation of the identities in the rhythms of a succession of poets influenced by each other.” – T.S. Eliot “The Music of Poetry”
I very much enjoyed Paul Johnson’s book, The Quest for God: A Personal Pilgrimage. I took a great deal from it but one of the things I most remember coming away with was an admiration for his practical appreciation of Catholicism.
He was very fond of the age and history of the Church, the scholarship and arguments – even those about angels and pin heads, which is a punch line though it shouldn’t be – of two thousand years. He felt a weight lifted. There may be facets and tenets that made no sense or seemed at odds to him, but he could put doubts aside and rest easy, secure in the knowledge that wiser and more learned heads than his had considered, deliberated, and concluded. He found faith.
EnterpriseAppsToday’s web site has a number of statistics related to work place time wasting. It’s eye opening. Some selected bits – a few iotum or datum if you know not much latin:
In the United States, during 8 hours of working time, employees waste an average of 2.9 hours by doing no effective work.
31% of workers waste a minimum of 1 hour each workday.
6% of employees waste around 3 hours each day at work.
4% of workers claim they waste at least 4 hours daily in the workplace.
If employees in general waste 2.9 hours each, but only 6% waste 3 hours and 4% waste 4 hours, and 31% waste 1 hour, then the remaining 59% have to waste 3.89 hours a day. I don’t think people present 6% at 3 hours and 4% at 4 hours when there’s a whopping 59% at 3.89 hours going unmentioned. That’s not how you present facts. If you’re trying to show that time wasting at work is rampant, do you leave out the biggest cohort at almost the highest time waste rate but leave in 6% at a measly 3 hours? No. They made all of that up.
Even the people who compile employee time wasting figures aren’t giving the matter proper attention. Don’t feel bad skipping out of work early. Nothing’s getting done there anyway. Have a POETS Day. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
First though, take a minute for some verse.
***
Suetonius writes that Quintus Horatius Flaccus, known to most of us as Horace, was military tribune under Brutus. This was two years after the assassination of Julius Caesar, so there was no “Shocked!” moment or questions about honor when Horace took up arms with the man. He was at Philippi for Octavian’s victory and would later claim to have left his shield behind and fled, but running off without a shield was an act claimed by Greek poets he admired and was probably a joke.
I’d take a POETS Day for certain this week as I’m not sure what we’ll be up to next week. Doubtless we’ll be wondering how Argentina and pretty much everybody else gets to know who won their election a few hours after the polls close and we have to wait eons for plumbers to come and fix our water main. There will likely be uncertainty.
So this week, Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sneak some fun free time off this week because this time next, you’ll probably be boarding up windows or fitting pepper spray proof goggle and face mask combos, depending on whether things seem to be going your way.
“Democracy dies in darkness” is the current take. I prefer “A good many thing go on in the dark besides Santa Claus.” Hoover meant by that that there are back room dealings and secrets not shared and we have no idea… I always liked to think he meant fun stuff; trysts and forbidden fruit tastings and the like.
Go do the fun stuff for tomorrow (or through Tuesday, unless you did it at leisure during the last few weeks depending on where you live) we vote.
***
I read a Muriel Spark book. The experience prompted me to read another. And read other’s takes on what I read. And reconsider. And re-read. It’s an endeavor. I still struggle not to say Sparks.
The lyrics to Lindsey Buckingham’s “Holiday Road” are
I found out long ago It’s a long way down the Holiday Road
and
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick Take a ride on a West Coast kick
with the phrase “Holiday Road” thrown in repeatedly. The beat doesn’t change – bouncy bass and a metronomic drum with two guitar riffs that loop. One of the four lines he bothered to write was ripped from tradition; not even Mother Goose tried to claim that one as her own.
It’s not a lazy song. It’s colorful. An anthem for someone with places to go and a copy of Republican Party Reptile hidden under his mattress. And there’s a dog barking at the end.
It’s a POETS Day masterpiece. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
But first, some verse.
***
When I worked as a sommelier we’d get travelers from various patches of wine country all the time hocking wares and buying lunch. It was a pretty good gig for a lot of reasons, but the lunches in particular commended themselves. These travelers would be winemakers, owners, sons and daughters of owners, national or regional sales managers, whatever. They wanted their wine on my list and, like dimpled pharma reps feting doctors, they filled us full of food and booze, hosting myself and two or three like-employed at some of the city’s best spots.
A friend of mine has a deep booming voice. Years ago, he was the MC for The Tragic City Rollers roller derby team, a play on Birmingham’s Magic City nickname. I’m not sure what to call roller derby participants. Players doesn’t sound right, but whatever they are, they pick campy or funny nicknames for themselves, kind of like drag queens.
I worked with a quiet, clever, but shy waitress around the turn of the century who moved off to Austin. Next thing I know I’m channel surfing and come across a roller derby reality show on A&E. It’s her. The waitress is on the screen smashing people and not being shy. It was amazing. She was named rookie of the year, which I know because of course I became a regular viewer. She had the best roller derby name I’ve heard. She went by Venus Envy.
Back to Birmingham, I don’t think my friend cared much for roller derby. I asked him if there was strategy and he said there was, but he didn’t know what was going on most of the time. He said he did it because his friend picked the name Sister Mary Merciless, and he really liked introducing her as “Full of grace and in your face! It’s Sister Mary Merciless!”
He said he had to be there mid-afternoon before the weekend matches. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s what he said and it got him out of work early Friday. That was brilliant.
Whatever silly thing you want to do is a valid excuse. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
But first, some verse.
—
Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo! Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow! Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!
“As the clock edges toward five, a palpable excitement begins to ripple through the office—a shared anticipation, a collective sigh of relief. It’s POETS Day, and the air hums with the promise of freedom, the weekend beckoning like a long-lost friend.
The term itself, a cheeky acronym for ‘Push Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ captures a spirit that runs deep in the hearts of workers everywhere. It’s not just a day; it’s a ritual, an unspoken agreement that after a week of deadlines and meetings, the horizon holds something sweeter.
In those final moments before the weekend unfolds, the chatter becomes lighter, laughter echoes a little louder, and the mundane tasks feel somehow more bearable. It’s a celebration of the ordinary, a reminder that amidst the grind, there exists the potential for spontaneity and joy. As the minutes tick down, the office transforms into a launchpad for adventures, big or small, that await just beyond the door. Here’s to the spirit of POETS Day, a nod to resilience and the joy of simply being alive.”
Close enough.
***
I got engaged over Christmas of 2001. In a welcome flutter of sentimentality, my parents decided they wanted one last trip with a single me. We took off for Ireland a few months later, just the three of us. As much as I love my brother and sister, it was special – a hated word when used in regard to anything bonding-ish so trust that I looked for an alternative but nothing else worked quite as well – just the three of us. We hadn’t been a trio since I was three, living with them in married student housing and then briefly in Birmingham until a sister came along and spoiled everything. She was loud to begin with and later took up the trumpet.
As a fan of blazers, light sweaters, and undershirts I celebrate the slow but welcome change to slightly cooler highs. If such things repulse you, or even annoy you to a slight degree (Hah!), I’m sorry. The sunny hot times are waning.
I don’t know where you live. This may be too late, but there could be some swelter left in the wide sky part of the day. Get out there and sweat when the sun is highest. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Not many t-shirt afternoons left so don’t squander them working. Have POETS Day in the sunshine. Go. Be on your way.
But as per usual, take a moment for a little verse.
***
First, the elephant in the room: the guy had a bad-ass name. A surname is a surname so his patents may not be due any credit for the cool-sounding kicker. Crowe was his mother’s maiden name and John was his father’s first name too, so John Crowe Ransom as a moniker was a matter of judicious assembly. They could have screwed it up, though. John James Ransom was a preacher in small town Tennessee; a Methodist so probably not as fire and brimstone as some of the neighbors and less likely to need anti-venom, but any preacher’s son risks the possibility of facing the world as Ada Hezekiah or Enoch Zerubbabel. I might read a poem by Enoch Zerubbabel Ransom, but his first task as a poet would be overcoming my giggle. Nobody needs that headache.
John Crowe – and I think you have to say the two names together with an implied hyphen like you would John Paul or Mary Beth – sounds numinous. He’s a half-Indian warrior guide who saves an expedition foolish enough to ignore his earlier warnings, straight out of James Fenimore Cooper. He’s an outlaw so mean, he once shot a man for snoring too loud. Or more modern, he’s a wizened Kerouac reading high school dropout biker whose gang scares off the preppies so Eric Stoltz can have his dream date. It’s a larger-than-life name. His parents did him well.
Welcome once again to POETS Day, that wonderous day where we do our best to usher in Henry Ford’s greatest creation – the weekend – a few hours ahead of schedule by embracing the ethos of the day: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.
Life’s too short for work, and nobody’s gonna notice if you hoof it mid-afternoon.
***
T.S. Eliot will with good reason be best known for The Waste Land, but it’s not uncommon to come across writings that hold up Four Quartets, considered as a whole, as the better work. The former was epochal. There is poetry before The Waste Land and poetry after, the full scope and impact being the subject of numerous heavy books. The Waste Land had the advantage of making a larger splash, not having been presaged by The Waste Land as Four Quartets was. I gladly claim agnosticism; “They can both be great,” and such. Being above the fray hides all manner of deficiencies in judgement.
“Burnt Norton” was the first of the Four Quartets, published in 1936 as part of Eliot’s Collected Poems 1909–1935. In the course of production or during the run up to his play, Murder In the Cathedral, a number of lines were discarded on advice of his director, E. Martin Browne. Eliot held Browne in some esteem – the two would continue to collaborate over the following two decades – and so deferred as to what was appropriate for the stage but he held on to the lines. He hated waste. James Matthew Wilson tells us in an informative video about “Burnt Norton” (one of four in a series on Four Quartets to which I’ll be referring to in this post – well worth your viewing time) that he was slow to write, or if not slow, frustratingly contemplative. “Constipated,” Eliot would say. It wasn’t his desire to waste what was painstakingly crafted, so a priest’s struck dialogue from Murder in the Cathedral begins his poem. In the gardens of Burnt Norton, a manor house Eliot once visited with Emily Hale, he says to her,
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
“Burnt Norton” is in five parts, as was The Waste Land and later the remaining of the Four Quartets. Eliot wrote extensively on Elizabethan drama and its five act structure is certainly being mirrored, but Wilson points out that Eliot was a devout man and this is a religious work so we see in the five parts the structure of mystical prayer. Here I’m paraphrasing, but first setting, then discovery or imagination of setting followed by a contemplation or inward turn. Fourth is a purgation, some sort of repentance or prayer of hope. Finally, we have a reconciliation.
The Columbo Game 