Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Day 317 Delight in the Light

Dear friends,

Some days, it's best just to laugh a little, at yourself and at the crazy, upside down world we inhabit. Some days, it's better to be extrospective instead of introspective, and to revel in the many lovely leveties of life, leaving the sadness and the weight on the porch steps. This day, I take a few hours not to think myself to death, but to read poems and "laugh at the days to come" as Proverbs 31 advises. The Great One has the world under control. I can stop trying to be the boss of the Universe. So this day, I share with you a poem from the inimitable Ogden Nash, who understood well the need to lighten up. No doubt I'll be all intense again by daybreak, but this evening I delight in the light.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.

For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.

No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.

Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?

Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.

But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.

He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,

I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter. ~

Just for fun, friends. I think of you with great affection.

Far from my thoughts are wrecks and sorrow
I'll surely find them there tomorrow
Today there's time to run and roam
And send my friends a silly poem...

Your friend on the pilgrim road,


1 comment:

Stephen said...

That poem was a new one to me, Loriann. I especially like the verse where he compares a reading from Aristotle to the other things he wants to inflict on the unsuspecting child. And I love the term "infanticiddle"!
You're right, the Great One has the world under His control. And Thank Him for that!