Dearest Readers, all best wishes for a thoroughly charming 2008. And hello! First post of the year! Only four days late!
Posting on the first of January was naturally out of the question, as I only got home from my parent’s residence [not a typo, just the one parent at said residence - Ed] at An Hour We Shall Insist Was UnGodly and I think I went as straight to bed as possibly consistent with eating dinner, faffing about and pretending to do laundry. The second, I had a migraine. The third, I went to work. Which was, as ever after a prolonged season of lie-ins, bloody knackering. And anyway, I was sleep-deprived, as the husband was unwell and therefore uninclined to lie still and breathe quietly, and I had migraine hangover, which consists of deep, persistent dorkishness, inability to spell, and tendency to walk into door-posts. Today, husband still tiresomely not in charge of his own respiratory passages, but I’ve got the hang of this coherent thought thing again [hah!].
And so, to prove it, here is a little New Year poem for you all. Lucky you.
The date, the hour of sunset, midnight.
Weather. Floods. All arbitrary.
The right-now so-dark well of the year
Rises high above and out of sight
And yet begins afresh. Itâ€™s here
At the starting-gate, so arbitrary,
We each eyeing the climb ahead,
Denying or feeling or succumbing to fear,
Here, that we believe, and it is said,
Is our redemption, arbitrary,
While the endless sunlit year spreads out
Chance after chance we could take instead.
I assure you, despite the extreme obviousness of above title, that it arrived well before the rest of the poem. And then the first two lines. You could say it is the poem that is obvious, in turning its own title into a motet like that.
I was temporarily uninspired to continue, and left the two lines lying about on a jotter somewhere. And then, of course, yesterday I was still awake considerably after midnight [see above] so I tried to bore myself to sleep by considering my two lines, and ended up setting myself a little technical exercise â€“ a strict rhyme scheme, the repeating use of the word arbitrary. And it says a lot about my general keenness at work at the moment that I spent over an hour the next afternoon polishing and fiddling with the results. So there you have it.
On comparing this poem to the nameless one about Christmas in the previous entry, I note that am clearly Mistress Grouchy-Pants these days. [Heigh ho].