I sent everyone a poem last year. I thought it would be fun, and it was kind of fun. The best part was when I got a poem on a postcard myself; that made me so happy that I forgave myself for bothering all the people who acted disturbed by their postcards.
This year I don't have any rules, so I'm starting with a poem so long it only appears in full online. I was arrested by Matthew Yeager's A JAR OF BALLOONS or THE UNCOOKED RICE when I first read (part of) it for three reasons, two of which I think are common to many people. A lot of people love to answer questions, especially questions about themselves. A lot of people love lists. And then I used to carry around a couple of index cards filled with conversational topics, inspired by a book on being socially successful that I picked up while waiting for a computer at the Silver Spring library. I made the mistake of showing these cards to my kids once and they ridiculed me mercilessly—I still think the cards were a pretty good idea, but I probably should have kept their existence a secret. Anyway, finding this poem was a little flashback to that episode, like clearing a handful of receipts from the bottom of my purse and being reminded of something interesting about myself.
Grey in my head, gray in print, by the way.
This year I don't have any rules, so I'm starting with a poem so long it only appears in full online. I was arrested by Matthew Yeager's A JAR OF BALLOONS or THE UNCOOKED RICE when I first read (part of) it for three reasons, two of which I think are common to many people. A lot of people love to answer questions, especially questions about themselves. A lot of people love lists. And then I used to carry around a couple of index cards filled with conversational topics, inspired by a book on being socially successful that I picked up while waiting for a computer at the Silver Spring library. I made the mistake of showing these cards to my kids once and they ridiculed me mercilessly—I still think the cards were a pretty good idea, but I probably should have kept their existence a secret. Anyway, finding this poem was a little flashback to that episode, like clearing a handful of receipts from the bottom of my purse and being reminded of something interesting about myself.
Grey in my head, gray in print, by the way.
Comments
The post card was fun.
After the paranoia subsided.
And then I was disappointed and sad that none of the initial "adventure seed" possibilities weren't so.
Then is was like a lottery ticket, a memento of things that might have been.
[1] The style manual for the modern business world is not Strunk & White, nor the Chicago Style manual or any of those others... it's the MS Squiggly line [except passive voice for tech/business writing you *have* to ignore those squiggles.]