Having enjoyed the middle of the day on Tuesday, I found Wednesday to be an unpleasant experience (although I did get to Dubuque and ate lunch with The Lovely One — that part of the day was excellent). I got ordered to do the first idiotic and pointless work since I took this job. There has been an excess of paperwork and duplication all over the place, but I have at least understood that a purpose existed. What I did today was pointless, will have to be redone correctly, and wasted time I could have been doing the same thing the right way. But now some bloated bureaucrat somewhere can feel his blushing cheeks polished by us peons: he can seem to be efficient because 100% of his cases are assigned to enumerators (in utterly random and worthless ways). Yes, it isnʼt reality, but then this is a bureaucracy.
Let us hope today is going better and with genuine purpose and productivity…
To relieve my mind of the torment of doing a ton of work worthlessly, here is a springtime poem I once wrote (early in my years in Maquoketa) in August as school started. The world didnʼt end when I posted the too frank earlier bit of verse, so this one is tame in contrast. I am pretty sure that it explains itself (rather unpoetically).
The central concept stems from something I had read that provided an unglamorous and rather unpleasantly sexual reason for teen girlsʼ love of horse riding. I do not know if that, uh, theory holds any water whatsoever.
I do like the imagery and description in the poem, though.
Poseidon, for the classically illiterate (and my apologies to everyone for that), was the god of oceans, earthquakes and horses — all of which enter into this poem. Thereʼs a debt to Robert Graves as usual, but mostly itʼs a bit of small town rurality overlaid with some classical allusion and semi-contemporary cynicism.
Poseidon, your horses
have been taken by women
again (Poseidon, conqueror
riding on seastallions,
won’t you remember
such horses as used to ride
the white foamcaps with dolphins
within the dawn:
in a sunswirl of lemon and purple gold
leaping on wave crests
to meet the land
with firm flanks and
mirrorhooves flashing the dawnlight
to scythe away morning mists.
Stallions and mares with
long dancing manes boreas–blown
burnished like copper
shook flying round corded necks,
shoulders wind–smoothed and rippling:
pounding down wavecaps,
fetlocks all foam spattered,
galloping upon the shore).
horses are women’s joy
as young girls with firm breasts
just now exciting their dresses
canter with thighs pressed
tight against leather:
learn quickly of ecstasy, riding
sedately down afternoon streets
through quiet oak Iowa autumns.
Ironically, I would not read Roan Stallion until years later. I think that just about hits all the seasons in discussing and/or reading this poem (however pointless that notion is).
We hope you all have an excellent day.