I think you need to know that I love Francis Heaney. His book, Holy Tango of Literature, is providing great comfort and amusement to me this morning. I am thrilled to announce that he also has a blog.
Do you think that by linking to him I might attract a visit here? And will he find it odd that a middle-aged clergywoman has announced her love (albeit artistic in nature) for him on the Internet?
Jane Dark turned me onto him when she posted one of his poems several months ago. He writes in the styles of famous poets, creating poems the titles of which are anagrams of the poets’ names. Here is a favorite of mine.
This ottoman is in my way.
I tripped on it again today;
It chills me with a nameless fear
To think it sees me as its prey.
My loving wife must think it queer
That I am always falling here
As I am walking past the chair.
How comical I must appear.
When I remember to beware
The wicked footrest lurking there,
I do not stumble in a sprawl,
And yet such instances are rare.
My house is cozy, warm, and small,
With just one thing that wrecks it all:
The ottoman that makes me fall,
The ottoman that makes me fall.
How can you not love a person who thinks that way?