Of Tulip Pots and Joy
There's a darn good reason we've never seen a poem containing the line:
And the children's joy a rushing tide, like tulip pots bumped through windows wide.
See, because the sad truth is that if you bump a tulip pot out a window, the goddamn flower is going to die--not today but soon. Transplant it if you want. Won't do any good. That tulip is all busted up inside and won't ever bloom again. So this actually makes it a rather poor metaphor for joy.
Furthermore, such a line could be misleading and downright irresponsible. Naive people might read it and then in an attempt to cheer up children, start bumping tulip pots out of windows. But some of those falling tulip pots are going to bonk heads, and some of those heads will be of children. And while there may be a few disturbed youngsters who brighten at the prospect of a well-bled skull wound, (mostly fourteen-year-old girls who listen to dreary music and shy boys that read too much) they're definitely in the minority.
Um, what was I talking about?
Oh yes, falling tulip pots bonking heads and what a poor metaphor for joy that is. (Unless you're writing poetry/songs for functionally literate psychopaths--but come on, like there's any money in that.)
Right, so in conclusion, I think it's a good thing there aren't any poems containing the line:
And the children's joy a rushing tide, like tulip pots bumped through windows wide.
Now, I suppose if you really had to, you could go with something like:
And the children's joy a rushing tide, like tulip pots that aren't bumped through windows wide.
But see, that's pretty clunky. No, I think in the end, you should probably just steer clear of tulip pots altogether in the quest for good joy metaphors.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 10:42 AM
12 comments
12 Comments:
Depends on who does the pushing, Latigo. There are a lot of kids who would find great joy in pushing tulip pots out a window. Like, every male under the age of 6. (Flower go boom!)
(Actually, I should amend that to males under the age of 60. Flower go boom!)
Okay, so it's not the happy fluffy joy we're talking about here, but I think your poem has a lot more financial potential than you realize.
Two words: song lyrics.
See, that way you not only get all the functionally literate psychopaths, you also get all the suburban whitebread functionally literate wannabes, and there's a lot of cash in that market.
(Upon reviewing this, I realize that I am encouraging you to increase the evil in this world. But you gotta follow your Muse, right?)
Somehow, after reading Slarrow's comment... I feel a little broken inside
it's a pity the metaphor won't work, because the flow is sweet like honey dripping from the sharp point of a tack. ;)
ok, so i'm not poetic. whatever.
I feel the tulip pot smashing to the ground is an excellent metaphor for the destruction of innocence. Perhaps not as vitrolic as wiping one's tears away with the butt of a pistol, but apt nonetheless.
Of course, it helps if one's innocence can be preserved past the age of six.
Tulip pots make lovely little exploding sounds
when taken down
with a Titanium Pimpstick™
Little targets all lined up
for my Titanium Pimpstick™
Wait a minute: You might be onto something here. See, the pots don't necessarily have to have any tulip bulbs in the pots. So now, let's see what happens....
heads would only be bumped if it were a second story (or higher) window . . . so maybe the line could be revized so that it specifies on first story windows for tulips to be bumped out . . . hmmm . . . i guess we are still left with the fact that the tulip will die . . .
wait!
aren't tulips bulbs? then, the current flowering plant may die, but the bulb should still send out shoots and rebloom the next year right?
there's some joy in that i suppose.
one spastic thrust
an ounce of lust
and anon
come the babies
Look what you did with all your talk of tulip pots! You inspired the ho to poetry! Ican't even do that.
I see your point, LF. And it's a good one.
I read an interesting fact about poetry, incidentally. More people write it than read it.
I follow the cash Slarrow. Well, that is to say, I haven't so far--evidence the hovel in which I live, but I plan to follow the cash very soon. Principles be damned, they don't pay the beer tab. I'm going to exploit the desperate for my own benefit, and I have you to thank.
We break inside Macek, it's what we do. Blame beautiful but fragile construction and a cruel, cruel world.
Oh come now Fourth, I'm not so sure about that. A flow of sweet honey dripping from the sharp point of tack pretty well does it for me.
Dern it Sharon, why didn't I think of that? I was raised by wolves by the way. Have I ever mentioned that? I was hamstringing white tail deer and snarling into intestines well into my teens.
Hey Ty, I don't mind if you sleep through this one.
You are indeed a sly, sexy fiend DMor... I can't believe you went and Trademarked "Titanium Pimpstick". Kid Relish is going to be distraught to say the least.
Yes... wait, what? Howz that gonna... But... I'm so confused Old Hoss--how are they supposed to bust up and die inside if they aren't in the pots?
NO Tabitha Jane!!! The bulb is also busted up and dying inside. I've looked into it--it dies, it all dies and then we weep savagely.
Ho, I've had your turtleneck and dark beret stored lovingly in a top-shelf shoebox all these many years. I knew you'd one day return to claim them.
Sharon, Ho loves me, and I him. We fool everybody almost all the time.
That fact obviously pre-dates Me LBB, because this internet journal has just under one billion readers.
Don't overthink a great line.
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