I wonder who first discoverd the power of poetry in driving away love?
I have been replaying the last few days over-and-over in my head, trying to decide at which exact moment I came in contact with the germs that have given me the head cold that I am rocking right now. I think I’ve decided it was when I took some candy from an eight-year-old boy. In my mind’s eye (in sepia-tone and slow motion) the kid sneezes on his hand, dumps some Gobstoppers onto his palm, and offers one to me. I remember being hesitant on account of the sneezing, but I also remember the pull of the Everlasting Gobstopper. (Charlie Bucket, you know where I’m coming from.)
At any rate, I have a cold, and last night I took some NyQuil and it flat knocked. me. out.
I woke up all disoriented in the middle of the night and my first thought was that I hadn’t blogged yesterday, and that I was going to get kicked out of NaBloPoMo. (I had actually blogged twice, which makes NyQuil a filthy liar, but whatever.) I remember reaching for a pen and notebook on my nightstand to jot down some things. I don’t know if I thought writing in my Moleskine would bring it to life on the Internet or what, but I did it anyway. I didn’t make it very far before falling back asleep.
When I woke up this morning, my pajamas were covered in blue pen marks, and I remembered writing in the night. I reached for my little brown notebook and was shocked to find that not only had I written, I’d written poetry.
It was sort of a love poem. It was directed at Vicks VapoRub. And, to be honest, it was a bit naughty.
Here’s the moral of this story: a) Put your cap back on your pen if you’re going to hold it in your hand while you sleep. b) If something makes you feel warm and tingly, make sure you’re completely sober when you address it. Bad poetry, no matter how lascivious, is still bad poetry.
Comments
I once wrote a poem while I was under the influence of, um, something . . . and it had Conan O'Brien in it. It wasn't naughty, though.
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Being under the influence is fine. Being under the influence while playing with balloons and firecrackers? That's this whole other story. If I say seven days, do you know where I'm coming from? Oh, I think you do.
Posted by: Jennie! | November 15, 2007 11:16 AM
haha!
I've written poetry in my sleep before and it is always so much better in my head than when I actually see it on paper.
I hope you start to feel better soon.
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Everything I've ever written (or said) sounds so much better in my head. (That rhyme was not on purpose, I promise.)
Posted by: Jenn (the not-sister) | November 15, 2007 11:16 AM
oh man, in high school and college i used to write the crappiest poetry imaginable.
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No, I've read the worst poetry imaginable. Trust me, this could not be outdone. Besides, words are your bitch. The End.
Posted by: kat! | November 15, 2007 11:19 AM
I think by seven days you are referring to when we might start playing with balloons and firecrackers.
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Among other awesomeness. I almost can't keep it inside anymore.
Posted by: Jennie! | November 15, 2007 11:28 AM
Well, OBVIOUSLY, we want to hear the poem.
I'm sorry you're sick, punkin.
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Unfortunately the theme of my blog is not "smutty poetry." In fact, Abigail says the theme of my blog is "these are the ways I hit my head." I'd ruin my reputation if I posted my bawdy Ode to VapoRub!
Posted by: Kelly | November 15, 2007 11:29 AM
Bawdy Ode to VapoRub... by Heather Anne. I dunno, I see it making the A-list just on the title alone.
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Maybe you should write some dirty poetry, too. We'll make a book.
Posted by: shari | November 15, 2007 11:51 AM
I am torn and conflicted. I feel like I should say, Of a fine stout love, it may. But of it is only a vague inclination, I am convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead. I also feel like I should say, but that was before all the vaborizing action!
You see the prediciment you've put me in.
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Then I feel like I should respond with: Dancing, even if one's partner is barely tolerable. And also: Are you telling me you don't want to get! with! this!
Because that's how Tater's roll.
Posted by: Jenn The Sister | November 15, 2007 12:06 PM
No matter how bad you think it is, I still want to see it - because you said it was lascivious.
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With all this interest, someone should really take up writing medical porn. Maybe you?
Posted by: churlita | November 15, 2007 01:08 PM
I am going to google the ass out of your Moleskine.
Or something.
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Surely not. (Heh.)
Posted by: peefer | November 15, 2007 02:40 PM
Hope you feel better. :-(
And long live the Moleskine. I'm not sure how I lived before I had one, but let me tell you—— it wasn't living!
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We should make a club whose slogan is LONG LIVE THE MOLESKINE!
Posted by: Pixelation | November 15, 2007 04:00 PM
Perhaps you should tell the Vaporub how you feel. *snerk*
PS... if you want to bounce that poem off me...um, you know where to find me. A poem about Love, smut, and Vaporub.. I can't think of anything more awesome than that.
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If you love VapoRub so much why don't you marry it! (You've had enough smut for one day.)
Posted by: Emms | November 15, 2007 04:00 PM
oh man, peefer's comment was dir-tay.
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He's incorrigible.
Posted by: kat! | November 15, 2007 04:25 PM
Feel better sooner!
To post bad poetry or not -- ah, there's the (Vapo)Rub....
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. (I love you for this comment.)
Posted by: ~Tim | November 15, 2007 04:44 PM
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments;
VapoRub is love
When rubbed upon the nose to clear the mind;
Or rubbed upon the chest to clear the breath.
O, it is a blessed vapor,
That goes on odiferous and never fails;
It is the star to every ailment that be,
Whose worth is known, and to such heights be taken.
Vicks is not time's fool, though it's vapor fade in time;
Then reapply before the sickle's compass come;
Vicks alters all with vapor sweet,
That brings me back from the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no woman ever loved.
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If you were here, I would quote Shakespeare to you from memory and heart. Since you are not, let me say that you have jostled many definitions for me today. Magnificent has a whole new meaning, and that meaning is you. (Also I am about to email you a poem someone (Cass!) sent to me today.)
Posted by: reddirtgirl | November 15, 2007 06:39 PM
Are you telling me you don't want to get! with! this!?
(You stole my comment, but I'm making it anyway.)
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I love you! I miss you! I am still not reading GG without you!
Posted by: Abigail M. Schilling | November 15, 2007 08:57 PM
Oh, the stories I could tell about Chris and Nyquil. But I won't. Because I might scare you.
(Hope you feel better!)
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Oh, DO tell.
Posted by: kerrianne | November 15, 2007 10:06 PM
this is the best shirt ever. I'd buy it for you if i wasn't my boss' personal bob cratchett.
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I just finished Bird by Bird. You remain acutely attuned to all things splendid, Heathy.
Posted by: heather nicole | November 15, 2007 10:18 PM
or cratchit.
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Say crack again.
Posted by: heather nicole | November 15, 2007 10:19 PM