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Showing posts from November, 2016

School food is sui generis

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Here's a poem I wrote to make you hungry!


School: Food They say an army moves on its stomach. So school must be an army. Korean food: garlicky kim-chi, rice-veggie-beef  bibampap.
Studying is brain work and depletes the brain of energy. Energy=calories, so studying calls for food. Mexican food: lardy refried beans, corn-husk-wrapped tamales.
Studying makes you think about food:                 2x + 3y=5 pieces of California roll sushi A sonnet ends with a couplet, two rhyming lines, which implies two chimichangas (but not from Chipotle).
The school cafĂ© is okay, but limited. Favorites are                 Tomato bisque soup                 Egg salad sandwich with sprouts on whole-wheat toast.
Just down the street you can get some Italian food:                 Calzones, antipasto, NY cheesecake.
They won’t let you eat in classrooms with decent carpet, but I say that if the carpet is nasty and stained,                 go ahead and eat.
In moments of desperation, you can go to the ranks of vending ma…

The Garden of Proserpine BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

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Here, where the world is quiet;           Here, where all trouble seems  Dead winds' and spent waves' riot           In doubtful dreams of dreams;  I watch the green field growing  For reaping folk and sowing,  For harvest-time and mowing,           A sleepy world of streams. 
I am tired of tears and laughter,           And men that laugh and weep;  Of what may come hereafter           For men that sow to reap:  I am weary of days and hours,  Blown buds of barren flowers,  Desires and dreams and powers           And everything but sleep. 
Here life has death for neighbour,           And far from eye or ear  Wan waves and wet winds labour,           Weak ships and spirits steer;  They drive adrift, and whither  They wot not who make thither;  But no such winds blow hither,           And no such things grow here. 
No growth of moor or coppice,           No heather-flower or vine,  But bloomless buds of poppies,           Green grapes of Proserpine,  Pale beds of blowing rushes  …

Fog by Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

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The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.