Jodie drops a Surprise Double Album/Entry)
Tortured Poet only more silly and without the Break-ups
If Taylor can surprise us with a 2am double album that was supposed to be an album that was hinted at months ago, well then…
Here are some poems I’ve written this spring complete with analysis by my own alter ego.
This fall, Jodie wrote a poem about the leaves of the trees being like burlesque dancers shedding their clothes. As spring begins, she imagines that they must dress themselves as well, only this time, the trees have all the dignity and the shrubbery are the lower classes, at least that was her intent.
Each in Time
The spring is slowly dressing itself
Bud by precious bud
The stately old ladies taking their time
(As has always been the fashion)
While the cantankerous young weeds by the highway
Grow lush and show off their new-money greenery
Thumbing their nose at convention.
Though the first to adopt the slang that springs toward summer,
They are always the last to notice the hedge trimmers making
Their way down the highway in haste,
Cutting them back down to size.
The large oaks look on haughtily,
Patiently, staid and at the ready.
“Harumph," they cough. “Is it really spring?”
“We’ll be with you by and by.”
In this ingenious sestet of poetry with an ABCCBA rhyme scheme, the author explores her restlessness with the playful interpolation of nonsense internal rhyme which paradoxically renders it profound (she says, wincing). Furthermore, an obsession with sandwiches is revealed in the rhyme scheme, especially those made of ice cream.
Time-Lapse
I’ve dropped a few deadlines this spring. (Chicken wing)
Been wondering just what should I do. (Wouldn’t you)
I’ve mulched and I’ve measured and mulled it all over.
while crouching and bending and weeding out the clover
And I’ve listened to a podcast or two. (Quite a few)
I just cannot commit to a thing. (Ding-a-ling)
It’s not that she feels she has to rhyme, but in playing with rhythm and sing-song lullabies, our author must wish that her domestic tribulations marry somehow with the housewives and faeries and Ol' King Coles of yore. You know, days of.
The birds, the birds, the birds they are a nesting
The woman, the woman, profoundly is protesting
She is pushing the nest off with a broom
She is apologizing profusely, though she knows not to whom
And the bird, the bird, the bird tries again
The woman, the woman, she cannot pretend
That she isn’t afraid she is wrong
She awakens each morning, hearing their song
But the placement would just be too close
And before they get settled, they'll have to suppose
That the woman, the woman will not be afraid
And the bird, the bird, the bird is betrayed.
Failed to render LaTeX expression — no expression found
More breakup songs later. Meanwhile, I love you, dear Meyn-iacs. (OMG I was going for Swifties but Meynies doesn’t work and then bam. Meyniacs. Nailed it.)
I don’t know quite what to say, except that I love what comes out of your head and onto the paper. You make me so happy.
Really enjoyed that bunch of trees budding out, that was a fantastic poem. I'm a Meiniac, Meiniac I know. Good job.
Sitting here in this village in the south of France, yesterday I had the most productive day of my poet writing life, four decent poems. Think of what you'll do when the load is lightened one fine day.