2001-04-09 - 10:16 p.m.
As usual, I'm fending off temptation, this time in the guise of Dichroic's most recent entry: The urge to address her as "Muffy" is pretty powerful at the moment, but I suspect if I indulged myself, she'd slug me, and rightly so.
As demonstrated above (as in, you'd think I could come up with better entertainment than thinking up annoying nicknames for my friends), I'm too zonked to write anything of substance tonight, so I'm going to head upstairs and open one of my ancient anthologies - the kind where a good deal of the poetry can be indexed under either Sap or Fluff. It's great stuff for bedtime reading - being not too demanding and frequently ultra-romantic, it's superb dream-fodder (I like reading food dictionaries in bed for the same reasons), and being short, the poems are easily set aside when the cat settles herself on top of the book or I doze off.
Since it has a plot, I wouldn't rate The Prisoner of Zenda as good bedtime reading, but it certainly ranks amongst the best of Sap and Fluff. I perused it a while back as part of my obsession with Vicky Bliss, and last week I stumbled upon a Richard Wilbur poem about the movie.
There's something rather cheering about fact that even Poet Laureates openly indulge in doggerel. The entire poem is a spoiler, so I'll content myself with sharing this representative excerpt:
It would be poor behavia
Off to dream of red roses.
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