It doesn't seem possible. But, as is happening with a friend who is doing this at the same time, we really are a week behind. I still have Chapter Nine to do. I wonder why it's so difficult, and why I procrastinate? I think it is partly to do with the snippets of time I have, and don't have, and I fill those with more mindless things like Scavenger Hunt on Facebook. (Oh, my! Another time sink. But, I do like it.)
I need a poem.
Today, Robert is prompting us to :
Today starts our final week of this challenge. So, appropriately, I want you to write a hopeless or blues poem. We’re almost there, which is reason to celebrate, as well as reason to get the blues.
Sometimes I think this won't be too hard! I'm shocked at the way the time has flown by this month. (I just typed, and undid, "blown," but I'm thinking that that works just as well.)
Still need a poem. DD had to read and analyse Billy Collins' poem "The History Teacher." So, here it is, from Billy_Collins.com:
Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.
And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.
The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"
The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.
The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,
while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.
And now I need to go up and "nod off" too.
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