For Poetry Friday, I found a poem that gives mud a positive spin — one that I will try very hard to keep in mind as I squish and squelch my way to school pick-up.
Poetry Friday is hosted today at TeachingBooksMud
by Robert William Service
Mud is Beauty in the making,
Mud is melody awaking;
Laughter, leafy whisperings,
Butterflies with rainbow wings;
Baby babble, lover’s sighs,
Bobolink in lucent skies;
Ardours of heroic blood
All stem back to Matrix Mud.
(The poem continues here.)
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6 comments:
When I lived in Colorado we actually called Spring "Mud Season". A rose is a rose is a rose, y'know?
I'm now singing an old song:
"Mud, mud, glorious mud.
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.
So follow me, follow,
down to the hollow,
and there let us wallow in glorious mud."
I believe it's about a hippo, and was done by the Serendipity Singers in the 60s. Yeah. I know. I'm old.
Oh, yes, here in Massachusetts we call it mud season, too. And like many, we also have a mud room, which I guess some might call a foyer or some such.
Thanks for trying the positive spin, which takes some effort in March. Still, nice poem!
Still waiting for the melt (and the mud) here in Ohio...
Thanks for sharing your poem about mud. It couldn't be more clear.
Laura Evans
Ugh. We have very muddy springs here in Minnesota. Like our house isn't dirty enough without that! The snow is melting in the backyard, and the mud puddles (lakes) are forming.
Ah well.
Loved these lines:
In the raw, red womb of Time
Man evolved from cosmic slime;
Ha!
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