Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Tarantulas on the Lifebuoy

For some semitropical reason
when the rains fall
relentlessly they fall

into swimming pools, these otherwise
bright and scary
arachnids. They can swim
a little, but not for long

and they can’t climb the ladder out.
They usually drown—but
if you want their favor,
if you believe there is justice,
a reward for not loving

the death of ugly
and even dangerous (the eel, hog snake,
rats) creatures, if

you believe these things, then
you would leave a lifebuoy
or two in your swimming pool at night.

And in the morning
you would haul ashore
the huddled, hairy survivors

and escort them
back to the bush, and know,
be assured that at least these saved,
as individuals, would not turn up

again someday
in your hat, drawer,
or the tangled underworld

of your socks, and that even—
when your belief in justice
merges with your belief in dreams—
they may tell the others

in a sign language
four times as subtle
and complicated as man’s

that you are good,
that you love them,
that you would save them again.

- Thomas Lux

Where's the joy in sorting through a whole run of Modern Poetry in Translation unless you're going to read a couple of the poems?

( Bulland al-Haydari, 'So That We Do Not Forget' )

( Fadhil al-Azzawi, from 'Every Morning The War Gets Up From Sleep' )

When:

[amount of work] > [time to do it]
[not enough time to do work] = [huge amount of stress]
[huge amount of stress] = [badly-done work]
[importance of doing work well] > [importance of meeting initial deadline]...

Then the compromise turns out not to be so bad after all.

So, some poems of people who manage to cope a little better, both of which seem to work as a nice antidote to oh-God-it's-not-perfect-so-I'm-the-worst-student-ever stress:

( G. K. Chesterton, 'Gold Leaves' )

( Christina Rossetti, 'In Progress' )

Apparently, the rest of the world does not stay up until half-past midnight arguing about why straight men don't write love poems any more.

This small part of the world does.

After a small scuffle, John Donne won the 'Poet You'd Most Like To Write You Love Poems' title; Byron's a little too rock-star-ish. (Although there was this group presentation on Renaissance love and relationships I did at undergraduate level, and rapper!Donne worked oddly well. Er, yeah.) Shakespeare got a contest of his own for the 'Which Sonnet Would You Most Like Someone To Write For You?' title, on which there was dissent.

My housemate's:

( 53: What is your substance, whereof are you made )

Mine:

( 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead )

Honorable mention:

( 130: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ['You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're all right'] )

Fandom winner: omg Delenn/Lennier!

( 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth )

W. H. Auden's Lullaby won the Best Modern Love Poem title. We concluded that straight men don't write love poems because straight men write love songs instead, although I can't really think of any love songs that I'd want to have written for me. The best love songs, or at least the ones I like, are miserable. Bruce Springsteen's Brilliant Disguise is the most accurate love song ever written, probably, but it's not exactly the kind of thing you'd ever want someone to sing about you, is it?

Maybe I'm just listening to the wrong kind of song.