The rose opens her petals
And embraces the violet
The lily too has awakened.
They bare their heads to the zephyrs.
Yes, it’s dreadful; and it’s translated, too. If I gave the original language away, it would be too easy. But I defy anyone to identify the least likely adolescent poet of the twentieth century.
Werl, it has to be some big bad wolf. A dictator, perhaps, or Beloved Chairman. Possibly a pope or ayatollah.
Meanwhile, a palace coup at work has seen my last pals in management ousted and the new lot seemingly… well, confidence is not high. And the Guardian is recruiting science correspondents in the plural, which if I can get to interview I may be able to bluff. And if one does, should one wait for the golden axe?
Horrible place to be.
Don’t wait. Jump if you have the remotest chance. Everyone should spend time on a daily newsper. It is a wonderful experience in many ways, not all of them sick. Besides, hanging around a dying organism is a pastime for sick lice.
If I say the pooem was writtemn in a seminary, will that help?
I thought at first it was JPII whose own poetry is bad enough, but it turns out to be Stalin.
How on earth did you find out? Quite right, of course. Is it really possible to google for Stalin’s poetry?