I have a love-hate relationship with poetry, including my own. Too much of it is contrived, precious, melodramatic, and affected. This one, though, makes me laugh, and maybe cements my claim to being the only person who’s written a poetic ode to roadkill in sonnet form.
Having grown up with unruly twin brothers whose tall tales were as hilarious as their lies were pellucid, she was more than a match for this lot, but they mustn’t see her crack a smile, let alone laugh.
For years, I’ve meant to celebrate Burns Night. What self-respecting poet, descended of proud Scots, could resist? All I know is that it involves haggis, bagpipes, and poetry. I’m all in. Just one small problem: I’ve never tried haggis, let alone cooked it.
I don’t like limits. I’m good at commitment, when it matters. But, pay attention: the word, for 2020, is “observant.” Read closely; there may be a quiz, later, Watson.