Today is the birthday of two of my favorite people. It's the birthday of columnist and humorist Erma Bombeck. She wrote, "My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?" My thoughts exactly.
It's also the birthday of W. H. Auden, who grew up in an industrial area of northern England. He lov ed the huge mining machines designed for breaking up huge rocks. He originally wanted to become a mining engineer but, one afternoon when he was 15, a friend asked him if he ever wrote poetry. He never had, but being asked the question made him want to start. So he did. From As I Walked Out One Evening:
Nonsense Song
My love is like a red red rose
Or concerts for the blind,
She's like a mutton-chop before
And a rifle-range behind.
Her hair is like a looking glass,
Her brow is like a bog.
Her eyes are like a flock of sheep
Seen through a London fog.
Her nose is like an Irish jig,
Her mouth is like a bus,
Her chin is like a bowl of soup
Shared between all of us.
Her form divine is like a map
Of the United States,
Her food is like a motor-car
Without its number-plates.
No steeple-jack shall part us now
Nor fireman in a frock;
True love could sink a Channel boat
Or knit a baby's sock.
1 comment:
More poems!
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