Dirty Poems
Well, they warned me it would happen. There's just too much to be mad about. I've hit my limit.
I started my day by reading the transcripts of Bush's latest speeches. Then I read about how much money we're spending to privatize the torture industry. Then I went to a seemingly interminable meeting, the jist of which was (from my ridiculously wealthy employer):
"We'd like to see better results. But without spending any money or inconveniencing anyone important. So could you just work harder? And with fewer resources? That'd be super. Thanks. Oh, and by the way, we've restructured things - it's too complicated to explain, really - but the long and short of it is, we aren't going to pay you as much as this year as we said we would. That's ok, right?"
I think I've had some kind of aneurysm. I don't smell toast or anything, I am just oddly disconnected and sort of peaceful at the same time. I think I may be drooling slightly, as well.
So I am taking the afternoon off, sitting on my stoop, and reading dirty poems.
Here's a little gem from Robert Herrick:
The Vine
I DREAM'D this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.
I started my day by reading the transcripts of Bush's latest speeches. Then I read about how much money we're spending to privatize the torture industry. Then I went to a seemingly interminable meeting, the jist of which was (from my ridiculously wealthy employer):
"We'd like to see better results. But without spending any money or inconveniencing anyone important. So could you just work harder? And with fewer resources? That'd be super. Thanks. Oh, and by the way, we've restructured things - it's too complicated to explain, really - but the long and short of it is, we aren't going to pay you as much as this year as we said we would. That's ok, right?"
I think I've had some kind of aneurysm. I don't smell toast or anything, I am just oddly disconnected and sort of peaceful at the same time. I think I may be drooling slightly, as well.
So I am taking the afternoon off, sitting on my stoop, and reading dirty poems.
Here's a little gem from Robert Herrick:
The Vine
I DREAM'D this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock then like a Vine.
posted by Feemus at
2:11 PM
3 Comments:
Sylvia's "samaritrophia" in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater comes to mind...hysterical indifference is such an understandable response. My best friend worked for a women's shelter for the past five years and was beginning to suffer from H.I. herself, she said. Then they told her, "more hours, less pay, more responsibility, less recognition, ladeedah " and she finally quit. What's especially irksome is how these guys all act like this is something original they're doing...or temporary. I'm truly sorry about your news today, Feemus. But your poem is lovely...or if not lovely, then at least appropriate!
By
Claudia / PVS, at 4:32 PM
P.S. If you find yourself getting desperate, you can always Ask Scottie McBruiser for help!
http://askscottie.blogspot.com/
He's a lovely fella, too.
By
Claudia / PVS, at 4:35 PM
It is a nice poem, isn't it?
And I am over my little self-pity jag. Or almost. It'll be back to self-righteousness in a day or two!
How annoying is it that people like your friend not only have the most worthy and most thankless jobs, but that they also get blamed whenever anything goes wrong. Social workers with ridiculously huge case loads get all the press when something bad happens, and all the people who never lift a finger think that they can tsk tsk about how social workers have become so jaded.
I hope your friend is doing ok. People who work at women's shelters should have a mandatory 35 hour work week, along with a healthy paycheck.
By
Feemus, at 5:22 PM
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