Poetic Henalysis

Primrose and Daisy have been up since dawn flexing their writing muscles. The writing muscle is located just off-centre of the point directly between the eyes which accounts for why writers often find themselves pulling odd faces, like they have a bumblebee resting on the end of their nose and they don't want to startle it because we must be kind to bumblebees as they are kind to us. 

'Are we ready for our first blog?' says Daisy. She has dressed for the part, deciding upon Regency style with a hint of Steam Punk to make her appear 'edgy.' (If you are unaware of steam punk style, have a Google and be surprised.Or not, if steam punk is already your a la mode fashion of choice.) Primrose, conversely, is still in her jim-jams because it is a well known fact that 1) writers never bother to dress 2) eat meals at socially acceptable times or 3) accept rejection with a light-hearted 'Fa-la-laaaaa! Never mind! There is always tomorrow!'

'I think so,' says Primrose. 'I have done some research and...'

'Research?' says Daisy. 'I thought we were going to wing it? You'll be telling me you've been doing planning next.'

This wild and crazy idea elicits a look from Primrose which suggests that is EXACTLY what she has been doing. She is taking this writing malarkey SERIOUSLY. She has already planned a shopping trip to Paperchase in order to purchase suitable and relevant notebooks 'n' pens 'n' stickers 'n' stuff. She is even wondering if she can get away with conducting her shopping trip dans jim-jams. 

Daisy sighs. 'You know we are only temporary writers in residence, don't you?' she says. 'Because once Denise has had the builders in and the Manor has been revamped, she will take back the reigns of creative direction until...well, until she has another writerly crisis. And then it will be the cats' turn to step unto the breach, dear friend.'

'But we don't know how long that will be,' says Primrose. 'And as such I intend on doing this properly. And I thought, in order to mark us with some intellectual gravitas we could start with a bit of poetry analysis. And I have found a poem. About chickens. It is by Jack Prelutsky...'

'Never heard of him,' says Daisy.

'Me neither,' says Primrose. 'But it is the best poem about chickens that I could find, so shut up and listen...ahem....

Last night I dreamed of chickens,

there were chickens everywhere,

they were standing on my stomach,

they were nesting in my hair,

they were pecking at my pillow,

they were hopping on my head,

they were ruffling up their feathers

as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,

they were on the chandeliers,

they were roosting in the corners,

they were clucking in my ears,

there were chickens, chickens, chickens

for as far as I could see...

when I woke today, I noticed

there were eggs on top of me.

And Primrose finished with a dramatic pause and meaningful stare.

'Okay,' says Daisy, adjusting her miniature top hat, the one with the lace veil and blue pheasant feather, 'what does it mean? In poetic terms?'

'Well,' says Primrose, whipping out an important looking notebook marked 'Writerly Thoughts and Analysis.' 'I think it is a reflection of the poet's inner psyche. The excess of chickens represent the troubled thoughts that crowd his mind during the daytime hours, and when he goes to sleep at night, these thoughts are released from the confines of rational thought and are allowed to manifest themselves in terms of chaos, noise, hyper-activity and er...chandeliers. The poet has tried to repress his angst, i.e 'the chickens' and in order to achieve peace of mind he must learn to release them from the 'coop' of restraint during the day, or his nights will ever and thus be haunted.'

'Have you been reading Tango Pete's copy of 'Freud Chicken' again?' says Daisy. 

'No, I have not,' says Primrose. 'Although I did find his thoughts on the 'Egg' most enlightening.'

'The Ego,' says Daisy. 'Really, you must get your eyes tested.'

'Ego, schmeego, whatever,' says Primrose, all casual-like. 'Regardless, that is what I think the poem is about. What are your thoughts, oh fellow guardian of the blog.'

'I have only two thoughts,' says Daisy. 'One is that the poet forgot to shut his chickens away properly at night and they went on a midnight rampage, and the second is that he ate too much cheese before bed.'

'You're not going to take this analysis wholly seriously, are you?' says Primrose.

'Probably not,' says Daisy. 'But tomorrow it will be my turn to present the subject of the blog.'

'Any ideas yet?' says Primrose.

'No,' says Daisy. 'But at least it is going to be funny.'