April is National Poetry Month

He said:


I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with a rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.


Billy Collins




She said:


Say my love is easy had,
Say I'm bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad --
Still behold me at your side.

Say I'm neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue --
Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
And I get me another man!


Dorothy Parker

I Am NOT a Painter

There is a commercial on HGTV that shows a woman standing in front of an gushing toilet while a voiceover says "I am not a plumber". Then there is a man standing under a tilting, spark-shooting ceiling fan while the voice says "I am not an electrician". The last little scenerio is a man lying head downward on a porch roof, limbs akimbo, next to an over-turned paint can, his head in a pool of paint. The voice says "I...am...not.......a painter". I love it! And this week I kept repeating it to myself as I attempted to paint our bathroom.

How hard can it be to paint a room that is only about 5' by 8', of which half is taken up by a shower stall? Pretty darn hard, as it turns out. First I scraped, sanded, primed and painted the ceiling. Do you have any idea how hard it is to negotiate a long-handled paint roller in a space that small? All the while, I'm trying not to get drips on the shower, toilet, sink and floor. Then I remove the towel bars, toilet paper holder, medicine chest and cabinet. This leads to several rather large holes in the walls that have to be patched, sanded, patched again, sanded again, and primed. I remove the door handle and prime the back of the door.

By this time, I have paint all over myself, including in my hair. I get all the paint gear out of the bathroom, strip and take a shower. At this point I discover that once you close a door without the handle in place, the door locks and won't open. So there I am, stark naked, in a stark naked bathroom. I have toilet paper, a box of Q-tips, and a towel to entertain myself until my husband gets home from work an hour and a half later. You can't pick a lock with a Q-tip. Let me say that. My husband was able to get the door open even while laughing his ass off.

Today I removed the light fixture, and put two coats of cream colored paint on the walls. I also put several coats of paint on my body, my jeans, and my feet. Tomorrow I'll paint the trim and put another coat of paint on the ceiling. I'll also clean the paint off the bedroom rug.

I finally found a medicine chest to fit the hole in the wall, and I've ordered towel bars and a new toilet paper holder. When everything is finally done, it's going to look great! 

Maybe I am a painter after all.

The shower incident reminded me of this poem:

Dorothy Parker

Portrait of the Artist

Oh lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rambles
And bar the window passing well
And gyve my wrists and ankles
Oh wrap my eyes with linen fair
With hempen card go bind me
And, of your mercy, leave me there
Nor tell them where to find me
Oh, lock the portal as you go
And see its bolts be double…
Come back in half an hour or so
And I will be in trouble.