There were no new posts yesterday:
I tried, but could not find a way
To balance all the things I did —
The tasks, that kept me off the grid —
With turning out my daily prose.
I thought that night I might compose,
But by day’s end, when all was done
And long before had set the sun;
When tried I boldly then to write
The words just wouldn’t come out right.
It seems, you see, that writing well
Requires wakefulness, as well
As fingers whole, not torn and rent;
And back unhurt, not bowed and bent
From packing envelopes just right,
At tables at an awkward height.
A friend, you see, had asked my aid:
The type of friend that’s rarely made —
The sort who always has my back,
And thus the sort that has a knack
For getting favours out of me.
I don’t complain: I’m glad to be
Of help to such a valued friend.
And so from dawn until day’s end
We packed up comics side by side
(I took the papercuts with pride);
We worked like slaves, not least because
It soon became quite clear there was
Too little time, too much to do.
(Yes, Brian, this verse featured you.)
Once I got home, and saw my bed,
All cogent thoughts went quickly dead.
I could not write. There was no way
Except to make it up today .
I thought some verse would do the trick:
I thought it would be fun, and quick.
Just rattle off a brisk gavotte…
As it turned out, I’d quite forgot
I really suck at poetry.
It’s not a natural form for me.
To any skill, I can’t purport:
In fact, I’m that annoying sort
Who writes in iambs all the time
And thinks each couplet ought to rhyme.
It should have been a bit of fun —
And don’t lose hope: I’m nearly done —
But since this turned out such a strain
To write, I think that I’ll maintain
My blog this way. I think, you see,
I’ll make myself write poetry
Each day I miss a normal post.
And since I really cannot boast
To any true poetic skill,
I think this quite adroitly will
Persuade me to keep up my prose.
I am resolved — I hope it shows!
(And so, to end — since end I should:
Buy Brian’s book. It’s really good.)