At least I was able to catch up season two of The Tudors on Netflix. I'm sure sure how I feel about Anne Boelyn yet. I used to think I didn't like her because of the pain she caused Henry's first wife, Katharine. Plus, she always has this sly look on her face like she's plotting something. But now, after she failed to deliver King Henry a male heir and instead gave birth to a female, then had a miscarriage and lost their second child, I find my self feeling sorry for her.
Oh, I got bit several times by a blood-thirsty mosquito which has taken up residence in my room. I will not scratch!
I found some random images I shot a while back on my memory card. I had meant to incorporate them into one of my past posts. I really like the subtly blocks of color on the first image.
I also spent my time alternating between writing a comparative essay of Olivier's and Branaugh's Henry V, milling around the internet and working on a quatrain poem for my Poetry 133 course.
Working on the poem was by far my favorite activity of the day. I've taken poetry and creative writing courses in the past, and I've always sort of had a thing for the two, so I've decided that I'll begin sharing some of my poetry I've written. This one is a metrical quatrain, which more or less means each line has to have 10 syllables which alternate between stressed and unstressed.
A Succulent's Plea
Rarely do I pine for your liquid love
Like traditional wisdom would suggest.
Yes, my petals look plump, but this soggy,
Damp soil I actually detest.
One would think since the others look content
And green, this one must surely feel the same
Thing. Let me assure you, gardener dear,
to believe this thought would be to misname
All plants as alike, indistinguishable
From the next. We may share the same pigment
And take in what they exhale, but from my
Botanical sisters I am quite distant.
My roots are drowning in your aqua drool,
Too inundated to draw even a
Breath of fresh air. What was once a soil
Bungalow is now a saturated floodway.
I do not like as much as she or her
or even they. The attention you've
bestowed on my leaves me sick and melancholy.
If you wish me to live, you've got to choose.
Withdraw your moistened sentiments, or watch
my foliage rot away, decay into the sea of pea
Colored mud. Grower, do you not see what
Is good for other greens may not be good for me?
Any thoughts? What do you think it's about?