holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Happy Guy Fawkes day, friends! Although now that I just typed that, I'm wondering if one can precede "Guy Fawkes day" with "Happy" in greeting, but no matter. What counts is that it is indeed November the fifth*, and there will be gatherings and bonfires tonight. Holloa!

Until then, however, I continue on in a Monday existence. I failed an Italian quiz, debated Referendum One with my shift supervisor, and designed several buttons for the WFs that (hopefully) will be done by tomorrow morning, just in time for recruiting. Which led, in this case, to a lot of thinking on poetry.

I have to give a reading tomorrow night for my public speaking class, which, to tell you the truth, completely delighted me. Poetry! Out loud! There's nothing more dear to a Carden alum than such a thought. Seconds after getting the assignment my mind was awhirl with the poems of my childhood, looking for the perfect one for the occasion. Wilcox, Kipling, Wordsworth, Millay; first lines and entire stanzas played in my head as I ran from third to eighth grade. I was jolted rudely awake, however, by my professor's next words.

"Which means, of course, no Dr. Seuss. He's great, but I want something solid, real."

"What about Shel Silverstien?" a boy called from the front row.

"No, sorry."

"Then where are we supposed to find a poem?" came the reply.

At which point I felt like crying. What? What? What world do we live in that such beauty is forgotten in our earliest education? Who judged elocution should go and "Life Prep" should stay? When did we decide the art of speaking to be old-fashioned and obsolete?

I am more than a little upset about this development, and yet there's not much I can do about it. One more reason to vote vouchers, I guess.

. . . . . . . . . . .

*which also means, I've just realised, that rent is due. Blast.