Last week I sent out another small batch of poems, lots of it the newer stuff I've been writing. I'm happy enough with them, otherwise I'd not have mailed them away, but not as thrilled with them as I have been with other pieces. It comes and goes. I'll trudge through. Poems are happening, and the great ones can only happen if poems are happening. So, great ones will happen. Of course.
I'm not much for confessional poetry, but if I were one for baring my innermost self through poems, I'd be lamenting through rhythm and rhyme the fact that I won't be seeing them really really big big dinosaurs in person. You know the ones I'm talking about! Walking With Dinosaurs is in town in May, for less than a week, and tickets are apparently made of solid gold. And we're very very busy that week, anyways... and the bf can live without seeing them, so I guess I can too. But, at the back of my mind from now until then, and even after, will be the glorious dream of life-size dinosaur puppets stampeding through Victoria, all the way down the Pat Bay, to visit me! Hello, Stegosaurus, I baked you chocolate-chip muffins!
In my final year of university I made many a dinosaur themed sculpture as part of my Arts minor. I've never had so much fun playing with sculpture and all its elements as I did in that year. Unfortunately, like the dinosaurs, dino-art can't live forever... RIP 'Rumpy Nibbleton' and the way awesome interactive end-of-the-world-for-dinosaurs relief, of which I may not have any pictures... whoops!Check out Rumpy there, life size (um, according to Professor Moi) and completely handstitched with the most awesome free find: pastel green fluffy material. Also included is a garbage can (for structure), paper-mâché teeth, over 30lbs of stuffing, a big floppy tongue, and what can only be described as snuffalufagus eye lashes. He hung from the ceiling and his mouth opened and closed (onto art patrons no less!). It took five people to carry him from the studio to the gallery. He was my pièce de résistance.
I don't want to jinx it, but I must say that any poem about dinosaurs would automatically be great; there is simply no denying the supreme awesomatude and paramount fantastriousness of dinosaurs. So I suppose that if poems are happening, poems about dinosaurs could, and should, happen, and thus great poems simply cannot be denied. Yay, logic, always on my side!