Return-Desk Poetry

Okay, Easter week was a terrible time to start a blog. In my defense, though, I have come back after the madness died down! And I'm posting again! For me, this is remarkable.... my Myspace died something like three years ago now, after being thoroughly ignored. (And I have a follower, now, squee! Hello there; I hope I prove sufficiently entertaining.)

And the sad thing is, for all that I've been running around, none of it is particularly bloggable. I mean, I've been working on my knitting, but I haven't entered the project into Ravelry yet, so I'd feel guilty mentioning it here first. I worked out at the gym, got beat up by a toddler, and made custard. Nothing wildly exciting yet... then there is work, at the return desk. Not the most fascinating line of work by anybody's standards; I think the guys building that prototype plasma rocket have got me beat by a fair stretch.

Then- no joke- I found a poem that I'd written at work some time ago. A poem not just written at work, but about work. And not just any poem; a sonnet. I went through a sonnet phase in high school, getting bored with all the "life-is-miserable" free verse going around (I felt it was pretentious; and what, a sonnet wasn't?!! Sigh...) Then, maybe six months ago, I was bored behind the desk. The rest of the mall had closed, but Target was still open for another hour, which meant I had nothing to do. (In case any Target execs are reading this, yes I had already cleaned See Spot Save. Phew.) I wrote a sonnet about my boredom, because this is the sort of thing I do... then I found it crumbled up in one of the eternal piles of paper that randomly sprout around the apartment. (I think they spawn.)

Anyway, for the Internet's reading pleasure (or horror):

"Worry And Repose"

When comes nocturnal end of day, there is
A cobweb film of slumber in the air.
The very rafters seem to drip with bliss;
The world's folk are laundered from their care.

Yet still remains the vapored air of strife
Wrung from the brow to permeate the whole;
It claws at our charisma, joy, and life
To chew and rip a fretful, anguished hole.

Tranquility will fight chaotic scorn
And morph into a bright new entity;
The sunlight will grow watered and forlorn,
And stars will wink in mute serenity.

And in the end, the winner of our will
Is peace, for in our slumber 'tis fulfilled.

.... And if that doesn't have you sobbing from poetic joy (and I won't blame you if it doesn't, that's certainly not my reaction), maybe it'll at least inspire you to remember your receipt please.

(Hey, now that it's on my blog, doesn't that mean it's copyright? Cool... so, um, yeah, copyright 2010 by me [that's Victoria Rothkopf], haha! Sorry, dork moment. I'll be going now.)

Next time: Knitting! And possibly plushie Cthulhu will make a cameo.